Crusade!

They went through the double doors into the private living spaces. Lady Rebecca Sharpe was sitting in the waiting room, crying quietly with two of her friends comforting her. As they came in, a Doctor came out of the bedroom. He quietly called Lady Rebecca, Sir Eric and the Ambassador over.

“It was a very severe heart attack indeed. I am sorry to say this but there is no hope. The damage to his heart is just too great. He is resting quietly now but sometime tonight there will be another attack and that will be the end. Madam Ambassador, Sir Martyn has asked to see you in private, alone for a few minutes.”

The Ambassador caught a look of pure, undiluted, hatred from Lady Rebecca. She understood, it must be very hard for a wife whose husband was in his last hours to see another woman asked in for a private meeting. She followed the Doctor in. Sir Martyn was in bed, she was appalled at how weak and pale he looked. Mentally she flayed herself, she’d known he was sick and she hadn’t done enough to save him. The, as was her practice, she hid her real emotions beneath a false face and sat beside the bed.

“Sir Martyn, how do you feel? Is there anything I can do for you?”

His voice was weak but remarkably steady. “It is all right Ma’am. There is a very real comfort in knowing that one’s time has come. No more doubts or wondering what to do or where the rights and wrongs of things are. You’ve done the best you can and that’s it. When your time comes, you’ll know what I mean.”

The Ambassador smiled, under the smile, she thought that was the problem. If her time came, she’d understand. Sir Martyn was still talking.

“But I must know, Ma’am, how did you deal with Gandhi?”

The Ambassador chuckled. Speaking very quietly so none would overhear, she whispered “It was quite easy really. We stole a car from the Embassy compound. One of the drivers liked to visit low-class women of ill-repute so we kidnapped him after one such visit. Used a rubber hose and funnel to pour whisky down his throat Then, we put him in the driving seat of the car, one of my people sat in the passenger seat with a wooden pole to push the accelerator and brake. Gandhi stepped out in the road, my man just accelerated the car into him. The he used the stick to pound on the driver. Everybody had been looking at Gandhi so they assumed my man had simply been one of the first Indians to attack the car after the “accident”. As soon as the riot was underway, he slipped off. I had a second man in the crowd to push Gandhi in front of the car but he wasn’t needed.”

Sir Martyn laughed, coughed then laughed some more. “You mean the Japanese have been telling the truth for all these years and still nobody believes them? That’s wonderful.”

He settled back on his pillow with a beam of tranquil delight on his face. The Ambassador quietly stood and called for Lady Rebecca. As she entered she saw the peace on Sir Martyn’s face and smiled her thanks to The Ambassador, she couldn’t hold any resentment against somebody who had brought so much grace to her husband’s last hours. As Lady Rebecca sat by the bed, the Ambassador looked out the windows. The square beneath was filling with people, all quietly standing and waiting, looking up as if they could somehow send enough of their own strength to help Sir Martyn through this illness. Even as she watched, more and more people joined the crowd below. Then she turned to leave.

‘‘Please don’t go Madam Ambassador. I know my husband would want you to stay with us. Please, sit with us.”

The Ambassador took the remaining seat by the bed. Lady Rebecca was holding one of Sir Martyn’s hands, she took the other. Sir Martyn was in a light sleep that deepened as the minutes ticked by. Then, one of his hands clenched hard and what little color was left in his face went. The Ambassador had seen more people die than she liked to count and recognized the death-shadow sweeping down over his face. Knowing that hearing was the last sense to go she leaned forward and whispered very softly “You are loved, Sir Martyn. And we will meet again.”

Lady Rebecca was sobbing quietly. The Ambassador went back to the waiting room and told Sir Eric that the wait was over. He followed her back into the room to say farewell to his friend. Outside, word was already spreading through the crowd. The people gathered were crying openly, gently, to themselves. Individually, none were making any great noise but together they were creating a murmuring wave of grief that was far more impressive than any more ostentatious or choreographed displays could possibly have been.

Sir Eric had finished speaking to Lady Rebecca. Together he and the Ambassador left the room as others started filing in to pay their respects. “What will happen now Sir Eric? I assume a successor has been appointed?”

“Indeed so Ma’am. The President has made arrangements so that Lady Sharpe can live here as long as she wishes. It is the least India can do. Sir Martyn had trained several successors, some of whom show great promise. I think the measure of his achievement is how little change will result from his death.”

The Ambassador nodded. “Sir Martyn told me once he had a dream of restoring India’s greatness. I wonder if he knew how well the two of you have succeeded. India is a great power again, one of the leading powers in the world. I understand one of the dignitaries in London has the epitaph on his grave ‘If you seek a monument, look around you.’ That would do well for Sir Martyn I think. He has made the whole of modern India his monument.”

Deep in the Jungle, somewhere in Mindanao

Manuel Onorosa, known to his followers and the press as “Commander Torpedo” was a troubled and unhappy man. After his extortion success in Rosario, he thought he had finally made his mark with the shadowy figures that ran the insurgency. He’d been instructed to meet up with another group and pass a portion of the liberated funds over to them. He’d done that but bad luck seemed to follow the money everywhere it went. They’d met up with the other group as planned, handed over the money as ordered. And, just after they’d split apart after the meeting, not more than an hour or two in time and a few kilometers in space, they’d heard the crackle of rifle fire, the dull thump of the mortars. By the time they’d got there, all the other unit, every man, every one, was dead.

He remembered their first victim, the old lady in the vegetable farm. She had cursed them when they’d stabbed and beaten her. His men had laughed it off at the time but now they spoke of it no more. And that was a bad sign. There were other rumors too, the godless Siamese, the ones who went to the villages and formed the Christian militias that were slowly but surely shutting the warriors of the True Belief out from food and information and recruits, they were spreading rumors that the spirits of the forests had been offended by the warriors and had taken sides against them. The old animist religion that had been in Mindanao long before either Christianity or Islam had influenced both religions more than either liked to admit. His men laughed at the idea of jungle spirits and sneered at those who still respected them. But, in their hearts they were terrified by the idea that the jungle itself had turned against them.

Yet, the curse hadn’t followed them. The strange thing was it affected everybody but them. The first rendezvous had been the first disaster. Then they’d been instructed to meet up with a second unit to ambush a Philippine Army patrol. The patrol had never turned up, the Philippine troops had probably decided to sleep in that day so the two units had split again. Only, the others had been destroyed by artillery fire. Just a few hours after the split, the Australian long-range guns had dropped shells on them and there weren’t even body parts left to bury. The jungle had taken those again. And so it had been ever after. Every unit that touched them had died, by ambush, by artillery fire, by mortars or just by vanishing into the greenery and never being seen again.

But it was the guns that were worst. The original reports had laughed at the Australian artillery, comparing its 94 millimeter guns with the 150s used by others. Only those Australian guns could throw shells to a distance nobody had dreamed of. They were creating a web of fire, an interlocking network of steel and explosive that was slowly pushing forward. Within range of the Australian guns, nobody was safe, the shells could arrive at any time. “Commander Torpedo” knew he was in range of those guns now, the shells could be on their way, now.

Yet they weren’t the ones he feared most. The big, long-range guns were in fixed positions, where they could reach, where they could not, all could be calculated. The dead zones were known and could be exploited. No, the worst were the little mountain guns. They’d never been listed in the reports because nobody took them seriously. They did now. Those guns could appear anywhere, at any time. Even in the most impossible terrain. They’d appear, pour fire into an area everybody had assumed was safe, then vanish again. When the battery position was attacked, there was nothing but empty jungle. Once, just once, the Australians had left some papers behind. The man who’d found them had picked them up and Commander Torpedo still remembered the explosion as the booby trap had blown his arm off.

Even the command had heard of the curse on his unit, the way it had leprosy, infecting everything it touched. He’d been ordered to retreat to this remote area and stay put. “‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you” had been the order. Nobody came near them, nobody spoke to them, nobody delivered to them or took from them. Their food was running out and Jose had never been much of a cook at the best of time. Now his concoctions were barely edible.

Suddenly ‘Commander Torpedo’ started, the ‘meal’, such as it was, in his bowl had slopped into his lap. Had that idiot Jose lost his marbles to the point where the meat was still alive? Then he looked down and saw the Australian-made version of the British Mills grenade in his bowl, and in the split second that was left to him, he realized that he wouldn’t have to complain about Jose’s cooking ever again.

A few feet away, a few minutes later

It had been like taking candy from a baby. The guards, such as they were, had their throats cut first, soundlessly. The Australian unit had moved quietly into place, blocking all the possible escape routes for the unit that was to die. Once everything was set up, half a dozen grenades had been tossed into the camp.

Sergeant Major Shane was proud of his throw, he’d tossed the grenade right into some poor dumb cluck’s dinner bowl. Worth of the Australian First Eleven that throw had been. He hadn’t had time to pat himself on the back, there was work to be done and rifles to do it with. The men who had survived the grenades were trying to rise, some to return fire, although where they would return it to was beyond their knowledge. Others, less brave perhaps but significantly wiser, had tried to make a run for it. It didn’t matter, whatever they did, the staccato crackle of rifle fire had picked off the remainder.

They couldn’t have done it with Old Smelly. The SMLE, despite its smooth, fact-acting bolt, couldn’t match the new semi-automatics for rate of fire. There had been a lot of jokes about that, about how the new rifle replaced Old Smelly’s single shot that hit with a lot that missed. As experience had grown, the jokes had faded away. The new 7mm rounds hit as often as the old .303s had and did a lot more damage when they bit home. Even the die-hards, the ones who’d learned their marksmanship before joining the Army, were beginning to see the virtues of their new rifle. They’d sworn that no semi-automatic could match the accuracy of Old Smelly. Now, they were slowly admitting, perhaps just one, this one, could.

They’d decided to take the terrorist unit out earlier that day. For almost two weeks they’d been following it, seeing where it went and who it had met. Almost a hundred Caffs had been whacked as a result. Almost a hundred stepped on and counted.

Probably a lot more blown apart by artillery. Every unit these poor suckers had contacted had been fed into the grinder. Every dump they’d visited had been quietly “vanished” or kept under surveillance. Now, at least a dozen more units were being followed, their contacts identified and eliminated. So this unit had ceased to be useful and the order had come to finish it off. It was a fair guess the Caffs were having their doubts about it as well, they’d ordered the unit into what amounted to quarantine. That’s what had really condemned it to death.

“Recognize these two?” One of the soldiers was holding a body by its hair. The man had been shot half a dozen times in the chest and there wasn’t much holding him together. “He’s one of the bastards who worked over Missus Tuntoya. Can we tell her we got him? Might cheer the old dear up a bit.” Their officer held a hand out and waggled it palm down. There were a few things to be sorted out first.

Rosario, Surigao del Sur Province, Mindanao, Philippines

Narisa Nurmahmud locked the doors behind her. The Philippine National Bank had closed for the day and she had a rendezvous to keep. During the day she was Miss Narisa the foreign exchange clerk at the PNB. Narisa Valadola according to the official records. But, in the evening she took her new Islamic surname and became a warrior for the jihad to turn Mindanao into a true Islamic state. One day she could wear her hijab and take revenge on those whose beliefs had prevented her from doing so in the past. She had lurid fantasies about how she would take her revenge on them.

It would come soon, the struggle was under way, financed by those who sent money back from the godless places they worked. She had taken another step on that route just today, three more foreign exchange payments had come in, a total of almost sixty thousand pesos. This meeting would get word to Commander Torpedo and he could take it for the greater glory of the jihad.

She didn’t expect to be grabbed from behind, she didn’t expect to be thrown into the back of a vehicle and driven off. She’d been walking around the town most of her life and that sort of thing just didn’t happen. She tried to lift her head up and a boot mashed down in the back of her skull, shoving her face into the floor. A blanket was thrown over her and that was the end of any hope of finding out where she was being taken.

Wherever it was, the drive wasn’t far, the vehicle halted, somebody grabbed her feet and hauled her out. She hit the ground with a thud that drove the breath from her, then her head still covered, she was half-dragged, half-walked into some sort of building.

There were voices around her, speaking in languages she didn’t know. They were arguing about something, in fact there were two or three arguments going on in different languages, One of them sounded like Arabic and she felt a deep sense of relief, despite the violence with which she’d been picked up, these were the people she’d been working for. Another couple were speaking in Tagalog, she couldn’t quite hear what they were saying. Then the world changed. One of the voices spoke in Visayan. “Oh just kill the bitch.”

“No!” She gasped, her voice mostly muffled by the blanket. “Please no. I am on your side. I am working with Commander Torpedo. My work is to tell him who has received foreign currency transfers.”

Suddenly the blanket was pulled from her head. It didn’t help much, bright lights were shining on her and the rest of the room was in darkness. “See!” the Visayan voice said. “She lies. She claims to be a believer yet she walks with her face bare. Kill her.”

To Narisa’s horror a glass containing a viscous yellow liquid was produced and put on the table. She couldn’t see it properly but it was there and it reminded her of her fantasies. The threat was making her sick.

“Please no. I wanted to take hijab but Commander Torpedo told me my duty was to stay with the Bank. Please. Ask Commander Torpedo he will tell you.”

That caused more discussion, more talk in the languages she couldn’t understand. Then the Visayan man spoke again. “You will write a letter to Commander Torpedo asking him to confirm your identity. If he does so then you can go free. If Commander Torpedo does not confirm your story then you will be killed.”

“That won’t do. It could be anybody writing that note. How will Commander Torpedo know it’s her?” Another voice, foreign, it sounded like one of the men who had been speaking in Arabic.

“ I know a way. Listen, bitch. Put things in there that only the two of you will know. You better make it convincing. A hand picked up the glass and swirled the yellow liquid suggestively. Narisa whimpered and started writing. When she finished, she gave the letter to a man, hidden in the darkness. He read it quickly.

“That’s great. A lot of good stuff we didn’t know and confirmation of things we suspected.” The lights flicked on. The room held three Philippine Army soldiers and two Australians along with a couple of civilians. One of the Philippine soldiers picked up the glass of yellow liquid. Narisa whimpered again and tried to turn her face away.

Then, the soldier drank from the glass and shuddered. “This is disgusting. Fosters you call it? Dreadful. Look, I’ll get you some crates of San Miguel sent over. We’re allies, we can’t let you drink this muck. If this came from a buffalo, we’d declare the poor thing unfit for work.”

Narisa made a despairing grab for the papers she’d written. The Australian holding them whisked them out of reach. “Now, now my dear. That’s not nice.”

“What are you going to do with me?”

“Nothing. We’re going to drive you back to your home and drop you off there. All very nice and polite. You see, we have no more use for you. Commander Torpedo and his gang of extortionists were ambushed and killed this morning by one of our units. So there is nobody to whom you can pass the doctored information we’ve been sending your way. Of course your people know Torpedo was killed today and they’ll see you being returned home by an Australian Army jeep. Of course, they may assume it’s a coincidence. And if they don’t?”

Suddenly the Australian voice turned hard and shook with anger. “There’s at least two nice old ladies got torn up because of you. One of them nearly died and the other has more guts in her little finger than you and all your friends put together. There are lot more who live in fear now, afraid to be on their own, afraid to answer their own door. So I think you’ll get what’s coming to you.”

From the Rosario Sun newspaper, next day

“The body of local woman, Narisa Valadola, was found on a garbage dump behind her home last night. The victim had been driven home by two Australian Army soldiers in a jeep, After they left, she was seen to enter her home, alone, at least an hour before the body was found. Cause of death was a single knife wound to the throat, cutting the neck to the spine. Three suspects, all members of the local Muslim community, have been detained and are assisting local police with their inquiries. Unofficial police sources tell the Sun that the victim and the three suspects had all been drinking heavily and are believed to have had a dispute over Miss Valadola’s sexual favors and the division of the proceeds from an extortion racket.”

CHAPTER NINE: PITCHED BATTLE

USS “Thomas Jefferson” CC-3, Command Flagship, US Mediterranean Fleet

Ten years ago, it wouldn’t have been possible. Five years ago it was possible, but it didn’t work. Now it was possible, it worked and the Navy had to find out how to use it. It didn’t even have the same name. It was the Combat Information Center on smaller ships, here it was called the Combat Direction Center. The heart, the nervous system of the CDC, was NTDS. It was NTDS that took the tactical data from the sensors, fed it to the CDC that turned it into a tactical picture and returned that picture to the CICs in the smaller ships. Looking at the system, Admiral Mahan knew he was getting a glimpse into the future of warfare. What that future would be like, he couldn’t imagine, what he did know was that it would contain a hideous and terrifying number of acronyms.

Still, what he had in front of him was impressive enough. Over the eastern Mediterranean, close to the Sinai coast, the SOCOM airborne command post, an AC-133A called Buffy was circling while she coordinated the rescue operation for Marisol’s crew. The SGALs had met up with them at last and were bringing them back to the coast.

Buffy was also acting as a relay point for the Marines ashore just a bit to the north and east of the SEALs. They had seized a blocking position between the Caliphate base area around Gaza, partly to stop the troops there interfering with the SEALs, partly to act as a diversion. The Phibron was a bit further out to sea, close enough to support the Marines, far enough out to be over the horizon and away from immediate danger.

The air operations were a thing of beauty. The Phibron was being covered by aircraft operating from the Shiloh, the Shiloh was being covered by aircraft operating from Enterprise, the Enterprise was being covered by Chuck Larry’s F-108 Rapiers from Aviano. Also from Aviano, the surviving 23 RB-58s of the 1/305th were bombed up and ready to go.

Mahan had heard the mood in the 305th was ugly, and not all the rage was directed at the Caliphate. The Seven Pines and her battle group would be transiting the Straits of Gibraltar in less than 12 hours, the Bull Run and her group were less than ten hours behind her. That would make ten carriers, almost 800 naval aircraft, swarming into the Eastern Mediterranean. The two carriers already on the scene had their Hawkeyes up and those airborne radar posts were also feeding data back to the Thomas Jefferson. Once again the terse statement of policy swam through Mahan’s mind. The United States does not fight its enemies, it destroys them.

In some ways this whole massive effort, aimed at the safe recovery of just three men was an example of just that. It was a message that said different things to different recipients. To the American servicemen, it was reassurance that if they went down, there was nothing, literally nothing, the United States would allow to get in the way of their recovery. It was a message to anybody who thought of fighting Americans, do it and the world of hurt that engulfs you will be beyond your comprehension.

The massive military operation now unfolding had another purpose though, one that was buried deep. It was a desperate attempt to make the other side realize what it was they had started, make them understand the sheer, raw military power they had provoked. It was a desperate attempt to make them back down before they were destroyed. America kept the peace by threatening the nuclear destruction of anybody who broke the peace. It was a hard and a brutal policy and it was one that had won America few friends in the world. But it kept the peace and peace, however hard-won, was more valuable than being popular. The catch was, if the arsenal of nuclear warheads was used again, if another country was wiped off the map, the peace that cost so much to create would be worth far less.

Admiral Mahan looked at the huge displays that dominated his CDC. Shiloh had her F6D Missileers up, for what they were worth. The F6D was pretty much a failure, Douglas had only built a handful of them and it wouldn’t be in service much longer. Grumman were already designing a new heavy fighter for the fleet, the XFI3F-I Tomcat. Its J-58s would give it the double-sonic cruise of the latest Air Force fighters combined with the battery of long-range nuclear-tipped air-to-air missiles from the F6D. When it arrived, if it arrived, it would be deadly. Until it did, fleet air defense really rested with Vought’s F9U Super-Crusaders. They could dash out at almost 2,000 miles per hour to intercept a raid but, unlike Chuck Larry’s super-fast but clumsy F-108s, they were vicious, agile dogfighters as well. Just the tool needed for the operation tonight.

Mahan sighed. For all the super technology that was being displayed tonight, in the final analysis, it would all come down to the Marines holding a beach and the SEALs doing, well, something unspeakable, as usual.

On the Goal-Track, Sinai Coast, south of Gaza.

“Where do you think they are Sergeant, and who are they?” Captain Ivan Jaeger trained his binoculars on the rock field that lay just beyond the burning Safra.

“Where Sir? That’s easy. See those rock scrambles either side of the track? Just there, they’ll be. Sucker bait those rocks are. Look very good for cover but they’re too far forward and too obvious. Who are they? That’s a hard one. That was a 3.5 inch bazooka sure enough and that says Americans. Only the rifles were something different. They weren’t Garands. They could be Italians, their BM-49 is chambered for the same round as our Stg-44s. Or perhaps they’re Egyptian gendarmerie trying to escape. If that’s so sir, I say we let them go. They deserve better than what’s been done to them. Maybe it’s both, Gendarmerie on the beach and Italians come to get them. That makes sense Sir. We know the Italians are helping refugees escape, its driving the raggies mad.”

Jaeger thought then made his decision. “Whoever they are, we know they are hostile. We’ll take them on, we have to. If they are Gendarmerie and Italians, and they give it up, we’ll turn a blind eye to any who escape.” He marked his map with the likely hostile positions then he and his Sergeant slid off the low dune and back to where the unit was waiting.

“Mortars. I want four rounds rapid each, these positions here and here. Take one position each, then drop four smoke rounds in front of the rock line. Infantry, as soon as the smoke is down, get those carriers forward. There’s a wadi about two hundred meters short of the rockline. Stop and debus there. That’s far enough out so the carriers will be out of range of the anti-tank stuff but their machine guns can cover the infantry as they move forward.

“I think there’s a mix of Italian and Egyptian gendarmerie in there, they’re probably using the American rescue effort as cover. Anyway, the Americans are well west of here. Panzers, move off to our left and get into position to provide covering fire . My guess is a few rounds of HE will drive the people in that rockpile back. Just look for the muzzle flashes and take them down. Go to your commands, we bounce off in five minutes soldiers.”

In the Rock-Pile, Sinai Coast, south of Gaza.

“You think that’s it Gunny?” Lieutenant Admire nestled down in the rocks. The flames from the burning armored car were dying down now and the bodies around it had stopped moving. It had been brief, just a split second or two. The bazooka crew had taken down the armored car and the riflemen had killed the crew as they’d bailed out. A beach patrol probably, had done this run a hundred times and forgotten there was a hundred and first. He’d reported the contact, got his acknowledgment and so, that was it.

“Sir, no Sir.” Gunnery Sergeant Tomas was trying to make something out in the darkness. It was just something a little smaller, a little further away than he could see. But there was something out there. “I think there’s more out there. I can feel them.”

“Learning something from your SEAL friends Gunny?”

“Sir, don’t knock it. When you’ve had a couple of men walk up to you in broad daylight and you just don’t see them, something sticks.”

“They that impressive on the exercise Gunny? We hear a lot about them but I’d always thought...”

“No, not that Sir. SLALs and I met up a long, long time ago. Back in Mex......Holy hell.”

The explosions had come suddenly, without warning. Eight of them, big ones that made the rocks shake and the ears rattle. Each one following the one before it so fast they merged into a single continuous rumble.

“Corpsman, Corpsman. For God’s Sake, get a Corpsman over here.”

Admire stuck his head cautiously over the rock as there was another series of explosions. White smoke was billowing in front of the Marine position. Over to his left, what he could see made him sick. He’d thought the positions he’d chosen for his bazooka teams were perfect. Rocks to give good cover, far enough forward to give a good field of fire. Only the mortars had landed straight on top of them. The Marine screaming for a medic was in the far position, those in the nearer one were ominously silent.

Even before the situation had time to register properly, he heard a roar of engines. He had his binoculars, they weren’t as good as the night vision equipment on the vehicles but they’d do. Through the drifting smoke he could see more armored cars, big ones, how many he couldn’t tell. They were dancing around, dipping into the ground and approaching mightily fast. However many there were, there were too many.

“Radioman. Charlie-Two-Zero this is Charlie-Two-Three we are under attack. Artillery and armored vehicles. Need support.”

Ahead of the marine position, the armored vehicles had dipped into a deep gully. Now they could hardly be seen, just a sliver of their tops. The position didn’t hide what they were doing, the Marines could see their infantry debussing. “November-Zero. Armored vehicles are armored personnel carriers. They are unloading about 200 yards in front of us. Estimate at least company strength. Am engaging.”

The enemy soldiers were already in position, spreading out along the gully. Suddenly there was a roar and more than three dozen flames seemed to jab out from the lip of the wadi and the vehicles hull-down in it. At the receiving end, the effect was rather like being caught in a cloudburst, the hail of fire torrenting off the rocks and ricocheting across the gaps. In the middle of the hail, Admire saw a group of the enemy leave the protection of the gully and run forward to a new position. It was too quick for anybody to do anything but wait for the next one.

That didn’t take long, there was another torrent of fire and again, a group from the gully tried to run forward. This time the Marines were ready, the MMG lashed out a string of tracers and a couple of the men went down. More were hit by the rifle fire from the new M-14s.

The response was immediate, half a dozen of the enemy machineguns concentrated on the MMG position while others hosed down areas where muzzle flashes had been spotted. The Marines who survived learned a valuable lesson, fire a shot, get the hell out of Dodge.

Admire shook himself, his command was already taking a battering, he’d lost both his bazooka teams and one of his MMGs and the action was only a few seconds old. Out in front, the enemy were still edging forward, small groups of men dashing up, supported by the sleet of fire from the machineguns. As the enemy infantry were getting closer, their own fire was becoming more effective.

“Classic fire and maneuver. It’s what we teach but I’ve never seen it done this well before. Just who the devil are those people?”

On the Goat-Track, Sinai Coast, south of Gaza.

“Just who the devil are those people?” Jaeger cursed. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. The rules were quite clear, you’d hit the bad guys with mortars, charge them, give them a good blast with machinegun fire start to advance on them. Then the raggies would run away and his men could shoot them as they ran. Only it wasn’t happening. The men in the rocks were fighting hard. And well.

Already Jaeger was losing men to the enemy fire. He’s expected to have a couple hit by a machinegun if the enemy had one but his people were going down to rifle fire. On his command car, the nose machinegun was being tired by the driver, one of those infernal ritlemen had picked off the original gunner. He was beginning to run out of time as well, the devastating concentration of fire from the MG42s could only be sustained so long, barrels were overheating, ammunition was running short. As the volume of fire slackened, the enemy would be able to fight back more effectively and those damned riflemen could make each shot count.

“Don’t know sir. They aren’t raggies that’s for sure. Fight more like Russians. Sir, if they had experience to match their skills we’d be deep in hurt by now.”

Jaeger nodded. The enemy was inexperienced, that was clear, their positions were too obvious and too far forward and that had cost them badly. And their fire discipline had left a lot to be desired. But, the survivors would be learning fast. Which didn’t answer the question. Just who the devil were they?

“Sir, Panzers!”

“I know sergeant, they are out on our left flank.”

“No Sir, not ours, enemy coming out of the rockpile.”

Enemy panzers? Jaeger began to get a sick feeling of apprehension He focused his binoculars on the spot where the goat track entered the rockpile. There they were, tanks for certain. Jaeger twisted the focus on his binoculars, already sure what he was going to see. Sleek, low hull, five roadwheels, big flatsided turret with an absurdly long gun. M60A3s. American. And there was only one organization that could put heavy tanks onto a hostile beach. They were fighting American Marines. Jaeger shuddered and looked up at the sky, already expecting to see it turn black with SACs bombers. The stars still shone down though, through a desert-clear sky.

“Sergeant, we are fighting American Marines. We’ve got to get this finished before their air support arrives. Get the Landsers moving forward fast. This is going to cost us.”

M60A3 “Fox-Two-Five “ In Front Of the Rockpile

The tactical problem was that the track through the rockpile was the only way vehicles could maneuver. The rocks were too broken and jagged to allow the tanks across, they had to stick to the goat track. So they would be debouching on a narrow front. Fortunately the enemy troops that had been giving Charlie Two-Three a hard time were all north of the track. So he could swing his tanks south, form up then roll up the enemy position, south to north.

According to the fragmentary reports from Two-Three, they were facing infantry backed up with mortars, no big deal, the tanks could take them. Then, Fox-Two-Five hit a runnel in the track and lurched forward. Lieutenant Dixon bounced off the rim of the cupola and cursed. Once they were out of the rocks and off this apology for a path of course. Ahead of him, the long 120 millimeter gun come close to grounding with the lurch. The new gun had been a controversial feature of the M60 series, a lot of people preferred the faster-firing and more manageable 90 millimeter installed on the old M48 series. Eventually, supporters of the big gun had their way, the 90 was at the end of its development potential and the 120 had a much more effective HE shell.

The five tanks burst out of the Rockpile in line ahead and swung south, forming into echelon left as they did. Almost immediately Dixon’s thermal viewer picked up a shimmer above the dune line ahead of them.

“Uh-oh guys we have company. Vehicles ahead, I’m picking up their exhaust plume.”

That was a complication, with another vehicle force to the south of them, they would have to take that out before engaging the force to the north. So Charlie-Two-Three would have to hold for a little longer. The five tanks formed into line abreast, accelerating as they closed on the position to the south. The sand was a lot smoother than the track had been but it was soft and the treads weren’t operating to maximum efficiency. Even so, the M60 was a lot faster than the old M48 had been.

Peering through the commander’s station, Dixon saw the angular shape of a tank turret peeping just over the ridge. From what he knew of Caliphate armor, it would be a Chimp tank. That meant fast, well-gunned but paper-thin armor. He tried to get a range using the infra-red optical target tracking system but either he was unlucky or the Chimp tank had an infrared detector. As soon as he illuminated it, the tank backed out of sight.

A few seconds later another tank appeared, obviously taking over the watch. Illuminated - and disappeared. After a couple more brief visitors, Dixon realized the Caff tank crew had made a mistake, each time they reappeared, they did so in the same place. “Slow down, take them as they come over the ridge next time.” Dixon followed his own orders, slowed Fox-Two-Five down and trained the gun on the piece of ridge the Caff had used last.

At first he thought he’d fired, there was the same crashing noise and the same choking smoke. Only this time the smoke didn’t clear and the fire alarm was whooping. They’d been hit, an armor piercing shot had smacked through the side of the turret and the whole tank was burning. “Everybody OUT OUT OUT.” Standard rule, after the third OUT anybody who said “What?” was talking to themselves. His loader wouldn’t care, he was gone, smeared over the inside of the turret basket. Direct hits from AP shot tended to do that to a man.

Dixon went out through the cupola and jumped clear rolling as he landed. His gunner did the same. Two. Then Dixon heard the hammering from the driver’s compartment. When the tank hydraulics had caught fire, the 120 had pivoted downwards under its own weight and jammed the driver’s hatch shut. Dixon ran forward and jumped onto the burning tank, wrenching at the drivers hatch with his hands. He got it an inch open, then a couple of inches more but it was jammed tight. He couldn’t work out who was ringing bells, then saw it wasn’t bells after all. Somebody was machine-gunning the tank and the bells were bullets bouncing off the armor. He wrenched again at the tank, feeling his skin splitting and crackling with the heat in the metal. Then, there was a hammer blow in his back and he slid off the tank.

Lying on the sand he saw Fox-Two Five brewing up. The ammunition went first, then the diesel fuel, a multi-colored fountain of smoke pouring out of every crack. As if in a dream he saw a blackened hand come out of the gap he’d opened with the driver’s hatch, flex two or three times then collapse. His gunner was dragging him clear of the inferno, as Dixon was pulled through the sand he saw Fox-Two-Four was also burning. That’s when he knew what had happened. It hadn’t been three tanks on the dune line, it had been one, moving up and down to simulate three and luring him in. The other tanks, there probably were two, Dixon thought, had moved around and taken him from the flank.

They’d taken Two-Five and Two-Four out with their first shots, even as he watched Fox-Two-Three take two hits and start to burn. The long gun started to pivot down, but the driver had his hatch open and was rolling down the frontal armor before the gun completed its arc.

Suddenly, Dixon’s eardrums met in the middle, Fox-Two-Two had fired and the decoy tank on the ridge flew apart. Fox-Two-One had spun around so it faced the flanking positions. As his vision dimmed, Dixon saw two hits bounce off its frontal armor, then its own 120 crashed. The shot must have only gone a few feet overhead because Dixon felt the wind of its passing. He looked around, there was boiling black smoke on the ridge behind them, and orange fire. Another Caff tank dead. That made it two for three. The day, or in this case the night, was not going well.

On the Goal-Track, Sinai Coast, south of Gaza.

“Well, they walked into that like a bunch of schoolgirls didn’t they?”

Jaeger was speaking to his command group but he knew the word would spread to what was left of his unit faster than the conventional laws of physics would admit was possible. It was true as well, the American tankers had driven into an elementary ambush that wouldn’t have fooled a German or Russian tanker for a moment. It confirmed his impression of the Americans, they were superbly equipped, had excellent training, and were woefully inexperienced. They had all the tactical skills, they just hadn’t learned how to apply them when the other side were playing for keeps. Now to gild the lily a little.

“See boys, the Americans aren’t so tough once we take away their bombers and hellburners. Fight them in the field like men and we have their measure and some to spare. So let’s show them how real men fight. Remember what happened in New Schwabia!” General Model had circulated secret reports he had obtained from the Red Cross. Every German who had been left behind when Model had lead the breakout to the south had been killed. Every man, woman and child, they had been taken out into the lonely Russian forests and killed.

“Remember what these people did to Germany!” Model had circulated another secret Red Cross report about that. Germany was a blasted, radioactive wasteland where nothing could live for a thousand years. Some of the soldiers who had done a bit more than high school physics frowned at that, but if the Red Cross said so, and who knew what the Ami devils had come up with?

“Remember what happened to our comrades who were in the occupied territories.!” Everybody knew the answer to that one, they had been gathered into slave labor camps and worked to death. The same awaited any of them who were captured now.

Model’s secret Red Cross report on that had been harrowing to read.

“So, boys, follow the example of our gallant Panzertruppen and show them how real men fight, how Germans fight.”

Jaeger hoped nobody would notice that at least two thirds of the panzertruppen had died in less than a minute. By the cheers that went up when the word spread. His infantry line had been noisy anyway, men shouting and yelling at each other, encouragement, insults, filthy jokes that were as funny as they were old. Anything to remind the men their comrades were around them. A man on his own could fail in his duty and rationalize it to himself but no man would show himself to be less than his comrades.

Yet that was the weird thing. The Americans were silent up there in the rocks. It was as if they regarded themselves as having a job to do, they had to finish it and they were going to finish it and that was all they had to say about the matter. Even the sound of their firing was different. The Germans infantry were putting down a steady roar of fire from their machineguns and automatic rifles, in reply the American fire was a crackle, a stutter. It wasn’t even a spray of fire, it was a stream of individually aimed shots.

And that was the real worry. Jaeger knew his unit was running out of steam. He’d started with two platoons of panzergrenadiers, now he had the equivalent of one. The machineguns on his personnel carriers had already fallen silent, their barrels burned out, the ammunition sacks empty. The infantry were relying on their squad guns now, far fewer and with a lower ammunition allowance. To make up the difference he had stopped his 120s dropping harassment and interdiction fire on the beach, they probably hadn’t achieved much anyway. Now they were supporting the infantry, or would be as long as their ammunition lasted.

That was another problem, after a few minutes, the American mortars had started hitting back. They were much smaller that the German 120s, Jaeger guessed 60s, the fire patterns suggested three of them and a pair of slightly larger ones, probably 81s. What their shells lacked in hitting power, they made up in numbers and five explosions suppressed better than two. In the end though, it was the infantry who were slugging it out. For all the brave talk about volume of fire, it was the precision aimed fire of the Americans that was doing the damage. Jaeger sighed quietly to himself, for all his bold words, he knew the truth. The Americans were wiping the floor with him.

In the Rockpile, Sinai Coast, south of Gaza.

The tanks had been a disaster, three of them were burning where they’d been hit, the other two had pulled back into cover, one, its gun drooping helplessly. There was something wrong with the M60, something seriously wrong. His men, what was left of them, had been stunned by the casual ease with which the Germans had killed the tank platoon. Now they were waiting for the German tanks to come and help the enemy infantry forward.

It was hard to believe, almost twenty years after The Big One, Charlie-Two-Three was fighting a German unit. They’d heard what was left of Model’s army had become a sort of King’s Guard for the Caliphate’s leadership and they must have brushed into it. The key had been the machineguns. That vicious, high-speed snarl could only be MG42s. Combined with skilled infantry and tankers who might have been born inside their panzers meant Germans. Nobody could come to any other reasonable conclusion.

They were good, better than Lieutenant Admire had ever seen and they were destroying his unit. Admire thought that if he ever got out of this, he was going to go to the Pentagon and pound on desks until people listened to him. He started with three squads and a supporting detachment spread along these rocks, 47 men of his own and 14 detached from the company heavy weapons platoon. On paper, he had two squads left but that included the walking wounded. He was commanding one, Gunny Tomas was commanding the other. They were split, one each side of the goat track. And they were both getting hammered.

It was volume of fire that was crucifying him. Aimed individual lire be damned, for every round his men squeezed off, they got a hundred fired back at them. That’s how most of his men had died, they’d taken aim, fired their shots and been riddled by the barrage that came back. Their M14s were semi-automatic, the Germans were full-automatic. The M14s shot, the Germans hosed back.

In machineguns the situation was even worse. When the Marines had switched from the 30-06 M1 Garand to the .276 M14, they’d also dumped their trusted BARs and been issued the Ml5. Which was basically the same rifle as the M14 except it had a full automatic option, a bipod, a heavy barrel and a 8 x 50 telescopic sight. On semi it was supposed to be an accurate infantry support rifle, reaching out to a thousand yards, on full auto it was supposed to be a passable light machine gun. Which sounded great until the enemy fired twelve hundred round a minute back.

And then there were the mortars, the Germans had started dropping their big mortar rounds on them again. The Marines on the beach had shot back with their sixties and eighty-ones but what the hell use were those pip-squeak little things compared with the dustbins the Germans were dropping. That was another thing desks were going to get pounded over. When outgunned, outmanned, in an impossible tactical position there was only one thing an honorable man could do. Call for help and if that failed, attack somebody. Admire tapped his radioman on the shoulder. “Charlie-Zero, this is Charlie-Two-Three. The issue here is in doubt. I need support, immediately.”

The issue is in doubt, Admire thought as more mortar rounds pounded the Rockpile. That is a nice way of telling the truth. For the truth was that the Germans were wiping the floor with him

On the Beach, Sinai Coast

The artillery had stopped, that was one good thing. For a while it had been tense with the German heavy mortars landing all over the assembly area but they’d stopped. Now they were back to pounding on the rockpile. Major Michaels thought for a second.

“Comms. Get me Buffy. We need to call in some help down here. Lieutenant Shaeffer, Take your Charlie-Two-Two, pull it out the rocks and swing it around behind Charlie-Two-Three. Be prepared to move through Two-three and assault the German position after our support arrives. Klinger, extend Charlie-Two-One so that its frontage covers the area previously occupied by Two-Two. Move guys or we’ll have Germans joining us on the beach.

“Buffy, Sir.”

“Buffy? This is Charlie-Zero-Actual. We need help down here fast. Can you patch through to Shiloh and get some fast movers over here? Like now? F4Hs or A3Js would be nice but we’ll take F2Gs and Adies if that’s all we can get.”

“Uh Sorry, Charlie-Zero we can’t do that. Shiloh is tied down covering the Phibron, all hell is about to break loose around them. Look, you’re a part of a bigger picture now and this thing is spiraling out of control. There’s nothing to send you.”

“Buff}’, we need help down here.”

“Wait One Charlie-Zero.” The radio went blank for a second. “Right, Charlie-Zero. The Boss says, this is going to cost you more beer than you can possibly imagine but we’ll help you. We’re twelve minutes out. Can you hold that long and can you get your stuff for the ground action together by then. We really don’t want to hang around close to Gaza longer than we can help.”

“Thank you Buffy. Confirm we will hold and we will be ready to go. What are your plans?”

The voice on the radio chuckled. “Let’s just say things are going to get terribly Napoleonic in about twelve minutes time. Buffy Out.”

In the Rockpile, Sinai Coast, south of Gaza.

Lieutenant Admire groaned and tightened one of the field dressings around his leg. One of the German mortar rounds had shattered the rock behind him and the fragments had lacerated his leg from thigh to knee. Outside, not inside or he’d have bled out by now. He’d been ordered to hold for twelve minutes and he had but it had cost them dearly. The Germans had edged nearer, they were about 75 yards out and their rifle fire was lethal. He’d lost more men. The good news was that Charlie-Two-Two had moved up through the rocks and infiltrated positions beside his own veterans. Admire laughed quietly to himself, dammit, he and his men were veterans now, weren’t they. The men of Two-Two seemed different somehow, boyish almost. Admire guessed his men had looked the same way an hour earlier.

The firefight was becoming patchier now, the periods of silence longer. In one of them Admire heard a quiet drone overhead. A turboprop transport, a big one. Looking up he saw a ghostly grayish shape.

AC-133A “Buffy”, Over the Goat Track.

Captain James Masters aka “The Boss” was sweating, literally and metaphorically. Buffy was swinging right around the perimeter of the prohibited zone around Gaza. In addition, he was disrupting his role as an airborne command post.

If this failed, he would be busted and sent to Alaska, it was rumored there was a duty reserved for special cases up there. Clearing runways of foreign objects in sixty mile an hour winds and sub-zero temperatures. Legend had it a SAC crew had been up there for five years.... no, it was too horrible to think about. But even if he succeeded, he would have a lot of fast talking to do.

“Gunnery here, Boss. We’ve got the terrain worked out and we’ve plotted our friendlies. There’s been a hell of a firefight down there. At least five wrecks we can see.” Masters looked at the map in the cockpit. On course, altitude right and ready to start the turn. This was the moment he’d waited for.

“Battery A. Battery C. Run out the guns.”

Doors slid open in Buffy’s side and the stubby barrels of three 20 millimeter gatling guns slid out. Further aft, the maws of the 105 millimeter howitzers slid into the ready position.

On the Goat-Track, Sinai Coast, south of Gaza.

Captain Ivan Jaeger heard the drone as well. His binoculars, good pre-war German stock were better than any the Americans had and he recognized the aircraft instantly. High wing, long fuselage, four turboprops. A C-133 transport. But what was it doing here? Were the Americans going to drop paratroopers as reinforcements? Did the Americans still have paratroopers?

Then there was a series of clouds behind the aircraft and a clutch of brilliant flashes. That was logical, the transport was dropping chaff and flares in case missiles were on their way up. But it was also turning and one didn’t drop paratroopers while turning. Did one?

Anyway, it suddenly struck Jaeger that the aspect of the aircraft was remaining constant, that meant that as it described a circle through the air, he had to be standing at the center of that circle. Suddenly that seemed terribly ominous.

In the Rock-Pile, Sinai Coast, south of Gaza.

Once, when he had been a youngster in Texas, his home had been right in the middle of Tornado Alley. One day, one of the worst twisters on record had come right past his home, well, actually right over his home. He and his family had been in the storm shelter and he remembered the ear-splitting roar, the demented wailing howl and the hideous, never-ending vibration as the twister had leveled everything in its path. Now the twister had come again, only this time it was a column of glowing light.

It had started without warning, one moment there had been the eerie silence that happens sometimes on a battlefield, interrupted only by the faint drone of the aircraft overhead, then the twister had started. It was coming from the aircraft, an incredibly beautiful cone of light that reached down through the darkness to gently kiss the ground underneath. The sound, the earthshaking sound, had started a split second later. Now, as the column of light moved across the desert, the ground underneath was shaking and heaving, fighting desperately to throw off the unwanted kiss of the luminous twister.

Admire watched, stupefied by the sound and the glare, for underneath that berserk sight were the infantry that had been attacking his position. Even as he watched the curve of the aircraft’s flight path took the column of light back and it washed over the position of the armored cars that had brought the German infantry. Admire could see the explosions as their fuel tanks erupted but they seemed weak, feeble, inconsequential against the howling inferno that engulfed them. Then, as suddenly as it had started, the column of light was gone and silence returned to the battlefield. Only the faint drone of the climbing Slayer and the crackle of burning vehicles broke the soundlessness.

On the Goat-Track, Sinai Coast, south of Gaza.

He’d survived. Incredibly, unbelievably, he’d survived. His command group had been between the infantry up front and the armored vehicles parked in the wadi behind. The thing, the demon, the monster, Jaeger couldn’t think of a term descriptive enough, had walked its nightmare of fire along his infantry, curved it over his sole remaining tank and walked it back over the armored cars. But, as he’d seen, he’d been in the center of the circle and the deluge of fire and death had walked around him, not over him.

He looked up at the aircraft, it was climbing but also it was turning. It was coming back. Please, God, no, Jaeger thought, not again.

AC-133A “Buffy” , Over the Goat Track.

Buffy’s forward gundeck was chaos. For almost a minute, the three Gatling guns had poured fire into the desert beneath. The weight of ammunition expended had been so great the flight deck crew had been forced to correct the aircraft’s trim constantly. In theory the expended cases should have been collected in the ammunition chests but 300 rounds a second left a lot of room for error. A Battery gun deck was awash with hot cases and two of the gun deck crew were down with minor impact injuries and burns.

As the sea of brass surged around the gun captain’s ankles, he felt Buffy turn into her second firing pass. The gun captain issued the famous old-time Navy Prayer “For what they are about to receive, I hope they will be truly grateful.”

Then Buffy shuddered as Battery C commenced firing.

On the Goat-Track, Sinai Coast, south of Gaza.

Jaeger saw the streak of fire from the aircraft and recognized it as a field artillery gun firing. By now, he was tired, terribly tired and he watched almost without interest as the first shells exploded in his mortar battery. Mediums, he noted, probably 105s. The Americans had put an artillery battery on an aircraft. It didn’t surprise him, if the C-133 had suddenly started ballet dancing in the sky with a purple dinosaur, it wouldn’t have surprised him. The shell explosions walked towards him and that didn’t surprise him either.

In the Rock-Pile, Sinai Coast, south of Gaza.

Charlie-Two-Two bounced off as the drone of the Slayer faded in the distance. They moved forward by sections, just as they’d been taught. Gunnery Sergeant Esteban Tomas watched them with pity. He’d seen it done right now and he had so much to pass on to the rest of the battalion. They’d done it by the book, and the book had been right. Only applying what the book said was a whole different world.

There was no opposition. Charlie-Two-Two had been warned there would certainly be unexploded shells in the ground and they took trouble to stay away from anything suspicious. Apart from that, there was nothing to give them trouble, where the German infantry had been looked like a freshly-plowed field. The armored cars were scrap. Then, one of the squads called out. They’d found a prisoner. Badly wounded, unconscious but alive. Identity tags said he was a Captain, one Ivan Jaeger.

Then the LVTs turned up, to take out the wounded and the dead. Lieutenant Admire looked at his Butcher’s Bill. Of the 61 men under his command, 19 were dead and 32 wounded, all badly. Those who had minor wounds had fought on until they died or had more wounds serious enough to stop them. Of the twenty men in the tanks, six were dead, four wounded, all the wounded had burns that would require long stays in hospital. Engineers were already getting ready to blow up the wrecked tanks. Admire just wanted to sleep. Michaels walked over to him.

“I thought you might like to know Lieutenant, the SEALs got the SAC crew out safely. Mission accomplished Lieutenant. And I think your stand here will become part of Corps History.” Admire nodded dully. History just didn’t seem to matter very much.

At Sea, North of the Sinai Desert

The three small craft pulled alongside the dark blue flying boat. A hatch opened in the side and one of the Seamaster’s crew threw down a rope ladder. Each small craft had four SEALs and a member of Marisol’s crew on board.

The SEALs helped the airmen up the ladder, then followed them. Commander Jeff Thomas was last, he paused in the hatchway and fired a short burst into each small craft, sinking them instantly. Then, the hatch swung shut and the PB6M-4 took off for home.

Missile Base Aldabaran, North of Gaza, Palestine Province, The Caliphate

The message had come in earlier that night. The American Navy group offshore had moved in closer. That message had also gone to the fast attack craft squadrons in the port, they’d slipped quietly out to sea, getting into position for the attack. Then a little later, there had been the explanation for the American move. Their troops were ashore, looking for the crew of the bomber that had been shot down. That was good, it meant the amphibious ships wouldn’t be moving far from the beachhead.

They even had a fix on the American ship’s position, not precise but much better than the one the missile’s designers had envisaged. They were just under 300 kilometers out, 12 minutes flying time for the big anti-ship missiles. If the fast attack craft went to full power, they could move 15 kilometers in that time. Their missiles had a 40 kilometer range. As it was, they were closing on the Americans and were just under 70 kilometers away from the estimated position of the ships.

The attack plan was simple. The shore-based anti-ship missiles would be fired first, as they were launched the word would go to the fast attack craft. They’d start running in on the enemy. They’d get the refined position of the target form the explosions as the big missiles hit the American ships, nobody was foolish enough to believe that all twelve would get through but enough would to create chaos and panic in the American ships. While the Americans ran around, trying to save their ships and their men, the fast attack craft would launch their missiles into them. With the defenses down, nearly all of the ships would be hit.

The radio in the command truck buzzed. The Battery Commander took down the details and coordinates and read the latter back to command. Command re-read them and confirmed. Then, the primary command truck contacted the secondary unit and, once again confirmed the target data. It all matched.

There was a groaning noise, a squealing, as the big cylinders on the back of the launch trucks started to elevate, compressing the suspension underneath them. Then, they reached the launch angle and stopped. There was silence for a second, then another squeal as the dish-like cover to the end of the tube popped open. Once again, a brief silence, then the unmistakable sound of a turbojet spooling up. It was quickly drowned by the roar of the boosters and then the missiles left their tubes, climbing steeply as the rockets threw them up and out.

The battery crew were cheering, waving their rifles and screaming abuse at the Americans as the boosters, their job completed, separated from the missiles, leaving them to make their way to the target.

W2F-1 Hawkeye “Angel-Three” Zero minutes after launch. Missiles 180 miles from target

“Vampires, vampires. We have vampire launch. North and south of Gaza. Raid count twelve missiles. Two groups of six. Target is Phibron Four, repeat target is Phibron Four. Eagle Flight, go for it.” The radar operator on the W2F-1 saw a group of aircraft detaching from the mass waiting in a holding pattern out to sea. One group streaked away from the rest, accelerating and eating up the distance. “Boy, look at those Super-Crusaders go.”

F9U-2 “Rosie”, 30 seconds after launch. Missiles 172.5 miles from target.

The Super-Crusader wasn’t quite the fastest fighter in the world, the F-108 had her by a small fraction of a Mach number but she was certainly the fastest accelerating fighter around. Lieutenant (jg) Paul Flower felt the kick in his spine as he accelerated then the awesome thump as the big engine in the back worked up some enthusiasm.

The F9U was blindingly fast but the truth was she couldn’t hold the speed for very long. She was built out of conventional aviation materials, not the sophisticated new alloys used by the F-108 and its bigger cousin, the B-70, and heat-sink effect would force her back down to normal speeds before too long. But, for the job of putting distance between herself and the ships she was protecting, engaging the enemy as far out as possible, there was nothing better. They were 200 miles from Phibron Four, Rosie and the seven other Super-Crusaders of Eagle Flight would cover that distance in six minutes.

USS “Thomas Jefferson “ CC-3, One minute after launch. Missiles 165 miles from target.

“Now that’s a surprise” Admiral Mahan saw the plot suddenly record the appearance of the anti-ship missiles on his displays. There was already a delay in the system, the computers that drove the NTDS links couldn’t keep up with the changes, but already the battle management system had done its job. The displays flickered again, and now they showed the Combat Air Patrol Shiloh had deployed to protect the carriers moving forward to intercept.

“Message from Angel Three to Shiloh. The fast attack craft are moving in to the attack.” That was expected, they’d been watching those Djinns ever since they’d left port earlier in the night. Angel-One had spotted them and tracked their movement. That was why Shiloh had an anti-shipping strike up as well as the fighters. On Shiloh now, the crews would be stripping ground support ordnance from the aircraft still on board and replacing it with anti-shipping weapons. Just in case a second strike was needed.

“They must be out of their minds. This is a full scale attack. Everybody knows what happens to people who try that on us.” It was one of the seamen on the air control center speaking, almost to himself.

“Don’t sweat it son. We haven’t destroyed a country since Germany. Well, practice makes perfect.” A chuckle went around the CDC. That was the nice thing about being an Admiral, Mahan thought. One’s little jokes were always funny.

USS Austin LPD-4. Three minute after launch. Missiles 135 miles from target.

The air raid warning siren was whooping, the shipboard alert system trumpeting “Air raid air raid this is no drill Caliphate missiles inbound.” To one side of the formation, the two guided missile destroyers were moving onto the threat axis, the first group of inbound fighters would be taking the southern formation of vampires, the destroyers would be taking the northern group with their Terriers.

All over USS Austin, the ship was coming to general quarters, hatches closing, tire prevention measures in force, damage control teams closed up and waiting. Captain Pickering stood on the bridge wings looking out along the threat axis. The radars were telling him the missiles were inbound but he couldn’t see them. He devoutly hoped they’d never get close enough for him to see them.

F4H-3 Phantom II “Tisiphone” five minutes after launch. Missiles 105 miles from target.

Rhino Force thundered across the sky, twelve F4H-3s, falling steadily behind the racing Super-Crusaders. They were the swing force, they were loaded down with unguided rockets to take on the fast attack craft but they also had their four AIM-7 Sparrows in case any of the anti-ship missiles got through.

Colonel Scott Brim checked fuel status and distance, his aircraft were much slower than the F9Us, all the more so for being loaded down. It would be marginal if he could get there quickly enough for the first wave. But for the FACs, that was different.

Behind him, but closing fast was Viper Force, 12 A3J-4 Vigilantes, loaded down with cluster-bombs. They carried their 12,000 pound load internally and they didn’t have the speed penalty that was hitting Rhino Force. So they’d get to the FACs first. Right at the back, plugging along subsonic, grimly determined not to be left out were the light attack boys in the Skyhawks. They were the reserve, the last ditch defense. Oddly, Brim had never thought of it before, but they were the only aircraft in the group that carried guns.

F9U-2 “Rosie”, seven minutes after launch. Missiles 75 miles from target.

The needles on the temperature gauges were edging towards the red as the eight Super-Crusaders swept over Phibron Four. Lieutenant Flower cut the speed back to 1200 miles per hour and watched the needle edge back a little. His radar was searching out ahead of him, looking for the formation of six missiles that should be directly ahead. All three of his AIM-7s were warmed up, the pair of AIM-9s were on standby. So just where were the targets?

USS “Charles F Adams”, eight minutes after launch. Missiles 60 miles from target.

The missile launcher aft swung to horizontal, the pair of Terriers slid out of the magazine onto the rails, then the launcher elevated and trained. The missiles on the rails had conventional warheads; there were too many friendly assets, too close, to use the nuclear-tipped missiles. In the CIC, radar had tracked the Super-Crusaders streaking overhead, saw them peel off to take the missiles coming in from the south.

The northern group were assigned to the destroyers. Six missiles, each destroyer fired her Terriers in pairs. The launchers cycled four times in each minute. The destroyers would keep a stream of missiles heading to the targets until they were splashed or the magazines were empty. Then, the computers calculated the target solution, came up with a go and the first two pairs of Terriers flashed into the night.

F9U-2 “Rosie “, eight minutes after launch. Missiles 60 miles from target.

Rosie had been diving to bring her within the firing envelope of her AIM-7s. “Now, he could see the missiles on his radarscope, a loose gaggle of six converging on Phibron Four, now more than 20 miles behind them His radar was already tracking a target. Rosie was third from the left so he picked out the third missile from the left. Stroke the firing switch and two AlM-7s, the side ones, dropped away before setting after the vampires somebody had been idiot enough to fire on an American warship.

The second ticked by. then, in the distance he saw two explosions. What the ? Eight fighters had fired sixteen missiles and got two hits? His remaining AlM-7 was locked onto one of the four survivors. He fired again, again there was a brief wait before a single explosion, much closer flared in the darkness. This was bad.

“All Eagle aircraft, missiles are now five miles in front of us estimated speed 900 knots. Swing behind them and use the infra-red track and AlM-9s.

USS “Charles F Adams”, nine minutes after launch. Missiles 45 miles from target.

The destroyer had two missile guidance channels, each designating a single inbound missile as its target. Thus, the two destroyers had designated four of the six inbounds and directed one Terrier from each wave of missiles at that target. All four Terriers in the first wave missed completely.

They were having the same problem the Sparrows from the Super-Crusaders were suffering. The inbound missiles were much smaller than the aircraft Terrier was designed to take down. The simple computer that worked the proximity fuse interpreted small size as being too far away and, although the missiles actually passed within their lethal radius, they didn’t explode, it was the square law at work, to get a signal return adequate to fire their fuses, they had to be four times closer to their targets than the designers had allowed. Deprived of their targets, the Terriers went ballistic and exploded at the end of their runs. That was the bad news. The good news was that Terrier was a very good missile. One from the third wave and one from the fifth got close enough to blow an inbound vampire out of the sky. That left four.

F9U-2 “Rosie”, ten minutes after launch. Missiles 30 miles from target.

The infrared tracker had a limited scan and a small screen but the radar got it pointed the right way. The brilliant flare of the Vampire’s exhaust appeared suddenly, Flower caught it and maneuvered to place it in the center of the screen. The annunciator on the AIM-9 growled then went to a monotone as the seeker locked on. Whatever had gone wrong with the Sparrows didn’t affect the ‘Winders. Flower watched his missile fly straight up the exhaust plume and into the engine of the Vampire in front of him. It flew apart with the explosion. Around him, the two remaining anti-ship missiles exploded as the Sidewinders took them down. The southern missile group had been defeated.

USS “Charles F Adams “, eleven minutes after launch. Missiles 15 miles from target.

They were going down slowly. One by one, the Terriers were picking them off. One more had gone with the seventh wave and two had been nailed by the ninth. The two destroyers had fired a total of 40 Terriers and scored five hits. That left just one and it was heading for the USS Austin. And it was now inside minimum range.

USS Austin LFD-4. Twelve minutes after launch. Missiles 0 miles from target.

The Vampire used an active radar homing system. It emitted pulses that saw the USS Austin as a mass of corner reflectors, a complex return that formed a crude, elementary picture of the ship. The guidance system digested that picture and calculated the geometric center of the reflector mass. Then, it adjusted the nose of the missile so that it was pointing directly at that geometric center.

On board the Austin the electronic warfare system spotted the slight turn and calculated the new course of the missile. With electronic dispassion it noted that the projected end of the course coincided with its own position. This, it decided, was not good. It picked up the missile guidance pulse and adjusted it a little, then returned it a touch stronger than the original. The guidance system aboard the inbound missile accepted the modified pulse and changed the missile course accordingly.

There were now two lines on the display. The original projected course that terminated in the center of Austin and another that represented the actual course of the missile. Slowly, the two were diverging, the real course of the inbound deviating away so the missile would pass aft of the target. Then, there was the critical point where the guidance system of the inbound wouldn’t be pointing at the ship at all.

There was an answer to that; aft of the bridge there was a series of thumps as a launcher coughed five inch rockets loaded with chaff into the air. They created a new target, one that looked to a radar set like an extension of the ship itself. The vampire flew through the chaff cloud, emerged the other side and saw - nothing. Without a target, it went ballistic and crashed about two hundred yards aft of the USS Austin. As the plume subsided, a dozen dark blue shapes flashed over the ships, followed a few seconds later by the crash of their supersonic passage.

A3J-4 Vigilante “Tom Horn”

It was a bomber pilot’s dream. Stretched out in front of them were targets, helpless, unable to shoot back. They’d spotted the Vigilantes on radar and started to take evasive action. To be fair about it, it was quite impressive evasive action. It was also futile of course. There were three formations, of six boats each. The twelve Vigilantes had split, one section of four taking each group.

Why the evasive efforts were so futile was a strange piece of history. The Vigilante had originally been designed as a nuclear attack bomber. The designers had a bright idea; instead of a conventional bomb-bay, they’d given the aircraft a long, thin one that exited aft between the two engines. A great idea, only the problem was that the bomb dropped into a stagnation area and followed the aircraft along. Not a good idea. It had taken the Navy years to give up on the idea, the A3J-1 to J-3 had all been different efforts to make it work. In the end, they’d given up and the A3J-4 version had been redesigned to have a conventional bay with snap-action doors. The aircraft worked at long last. However, since the aircraft was being redesigned, the opportunity had been taken to give the new version the latest bomb-navigation system. Now, all the pilot had to do was hold a line and a square projected in a screen in front of him on the target and the aircraft’s computer would do the rest. That was one reason.

The other was the bomb load itself. Tom Horn was carrying six two thousand pound cluster bombs, CBUs in ordnance-talk. When the square at the end of the stick was over the target, the pilot pressed the button, the doors snapped open and the bombs dropped clear. By the time the doors had snapped shut, the CBIJ was on its way down and the Vigilante was blasting clear of the area. 500 feet above the FACs, the CBU broke open, dispersing 670 armor-piercing / fragmentation bomblets over a 30,000 square foot oval. With six bombs dropped per aircraft and four aircraft per group, the area occupied by the FAC formations was drenched with more than 16,000 bomblets.

The rolling sea of explosions covered the fast attack craft. Their maneuvers had indeed been futile; no matter how tightly they twisted and turned, the basic laws of physics meant they had to be within a specific area, and that area was far less than the lethal footprint of a CBU.

The detonations of the bomblets covered the sea with a twinkling mass, a harmless, even a cheerful, festive sight. And, when they cleared, it looked as if they had been both festive and harmless. The FAC-Ms had come to a halt, that was true. But they seemed untouched and undamaged. Only a close inspection would have showed that they were riddled with thousands of tiny holes, the biggest no larger than a thumbnail, the smallest, pin-sized. A close inspection might have shown that the craft were filling and sinking.

Their condition, in truth, was hopeless. A single large hole can be stopped, flooding boundaries established, pumps started. When every deck, every bulkhead is riddled, none of those things can be done and the ship is doomed. Naval architects call it progressive flooding. The Vigilante pilots called it a kill.

F4H-3 Phantom II “Tisiphone “

Colonel Brim was furious. He was certain one of the Vigilante crews had given him the finger as they had streaked past his heavily-loaded Phantoms. If he’d been flying clean, he’d have had their measure. But, the F4H carried its load externally and that made the difference.

Suddenly he forgot his pique. Covering the sea in front of him was the remains of a fleet. The Caliphate FACs were dead in the water, still, almost motionless. A couple were starting to burn, fuel line probably severed, or something. It didn’t matter, they were all settling, liven as he watched, one rolled over, its bows pointed up at the sky and it sank stern first. It was strange, eerie, a ghostly sight in the moonlight. The twelve F4Hs circled the scene, watching the slow extinction of the enemy force.

Out of the corner of his eye, Brim saw one craft start to move. Perhaps it had been on the extreme edge of one of the coverage patterns, perhaps it had been lucky that a freak shift in the random distribution of bomblets had let it live. Perhaps one of the CBUs had malfunctioned. From the radio reports, a lot of things this night hadn’t worked very well.

Brim rolled Tisiphone over and angled down into a long dive towards the slow-moving FAC. The previous engagement, he’d been left out of the kill and it wasn’t going to happen this time. He lined up his rocket sight and let fly. The KAC-M’s luck hadn’t lasted, it vanished under the barrage of rockets. Amidst the sea of explosions, Brim saw the craft explode in the hail of rockets and sink.

“Jeez” his RIO whispered at the graveyard beneath the circling aircraft. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

Brim looked down again. Already, there were fewer boats left on the surface and the rest had little time to live. “Nope. But what sort of idiot tries to suggest an overgrown speedboat can be used as a warship? Damned fools. Don’t these people ever think?”

USS ‘Thomas Jefferson “ CC-3.

The threat board was empty. US Casualties. Nil. Enemy casualties: Everybody. Admiral Mahan sighed. The US Navy had just fought its first modern naval battle. It had found out that its prized new missiles, the surface-to-air ones on the ships and the air-to-air missiles on the aircraft, had proved far less effective than thought. Yet, despite everything that had gone wrong, it had won.

CHAPTER NINE: AFTERMATH

Cabinet Conference Room, The White House, Washington DC

His confirmation hearings in front of the senate were going well, with a little luck his appointment would be confirmed by the end of the day. Clark Clifford would be taking over from him at State, Dean Rusk wondered if Clark would be getting one of the marvelously efficient Executive Assistants the Contractors seemed so adept at finding. Speaking of Executive Assistants, why was Naamah sitting in the seat allocated to the Attorney-General?

“Thank you for coming Dean. Confirmation Hearing going well?”

“Yes thank you Mister President. The Chairman tells me the vote will be taken shortly and the appointment ratified by the end of business today.”

LBJ nodded sagely. He’d had some key figures over for drinks the night before and gently reminded them that he really wanted this appointment to go through quickly. Between the drinks and the crude jokes, he’d intimated that he knew where the bodies were buried. Literally and metaphorically.

“That’s great Dean. We have a problem though. Ramsey didn’t submit his resignation so it looks like I am going to have to fire him. Pd hoped to avoid that. The problem is, he’s vanished.

The Washington City Police Department and Secret Service are looking for him, he was last seen in his old office. I hope he hasn’t been foolish. Anyway, since we don’t seem to have an Attorney-General right now, I’ve asked Miss Naarnah to sit in on this meeting to provide any information we need from the Attorney-General’s office. She has no executive authority of course and will not participate in making decisions.”

Rusk nodded and took the seat next to her. The seat reserved for the Secretary of Defense. As he did, he noticed a scent, different from the smell of sweat and cigarettes that usually tainted the air here. Light, floral, and with hint of... sulfur? “I hope you don’t mind me saying so, Miss Naamah, but your perfume is a very pleasant change for this room.

“Why thank you, Mister Rusk, please call me Naamah, not Miss Naamah. I haven’t missed much in my life. The perfume’s Diabolique, by Yves St Laurent. The French may have their problems but they still make the finest perfumes in the world. Mister Rusk, have you got your sh....... got your stuff together about what happened last night?”

“Inanna was up all night collating it for me.” Rusk shook his head. The one thing everybody in politics wanted most was to be given one of the highest offices of state. The one thing they wanted least was to get it in the middle of a major crisis.

The President tapped lightly on the table. “Gentlemen, now everybody is here, doubtless you have all been following the fighting that broke out in the Eastern Mediterranean last night. Secretary Rusk. If you would provide us with an accurate summary of events?”

“Mister President. Last night US forces in the Mediterranean launched a rescue effort aimed at bringing out the crew of the SAC bomber that was shot down over the Gaza area yesterday. I am pleased to advise you that the operation was successful, the aircrew were located and extracted and are now safely on their way to the United States for debriefing.”

There was a patter around the conference room as the assembled Cabinet applauded.

“However, simultaneous with the successful rescue, Caliphate forces launched a coordinated sea and missile attack on our ships offshore. That attack was met by aircraft deployed from the aircraft carrier Shiloh. Again, I am pleased to advise you that the attack was repelled at no cost to us. A total of at least twelve long-range anti-ship missiles were shot down and at least twelve, possibly as many as eighteen, Djinn class fast attack craft sunk. Caliphate loss of life was heavy, we believe up to 300 of their sailors may have been killed. The action raised a number of issues over the performance of some of our weapons. I will detail those later.

“On a less happy note, we had inserted a small blocking force on the coast, between the Caliphate base area at Gaza. That force was attacked by a Caliphate unit, in battalion strength, and roughly handled. Although the Marines held their beach-head and repelled the attack, they suffered severely. Casualties are presently believed to be twenty five dead and thirty six wounded out of a total of 258 effectives. We have taken some prisoners during the action.

“Mister President they are Germans. We believe they are part of Model’s forces, the ones that escaped from Russia five years ago. Our intelligence indicates that those forces have been constituted as a sort of elite guard controlled directly by The Caliphate ruling council. The fact that such forces appear to have been concentrated at Gaza should be deeply disturbing to us.”

“If I may ask a question Mister President” LBJ nodded, Treasury Secretary Fowler continued. “Dean, was the attack on our ships and men a response to our rescue effort?”

“No, Henry, it was not. The Djinn fast attack craft had left port and were closing on the position of our ships several hours before the rescue mission was launched. The fact that it appeared a pre-planned attack on our ships and was launched from the same base area as the missiles that shot down our reconnaissance aircraft suggests to me that the attack on our ships was part of the same operation as the attack on our aircraft. Seer?”

“I agree. Mister President, the timing and sequencing of events suggests that The Secretary of Defense is entirely correct. The shooting down of Marisol, the coordinated attacks on our ships to appear to be part of a single operation, I believe the firefight between the Germans and our Marines does not fit into that pattern. I think it was a random clash between a blocking force and a coastal patrol.

“I think we must take due recognition of the possibility that the shoot-down and the subsequent naval engagement are part of a concerted plan to drive us out of the Eastern Mediterranean. We know that the Caliphate has been trying to eliminate the refugees crossing that area and we have been preventing that massacre. We also know they have ambitions towards extending their domination along the southern Mediterranean Littoral. There is a very real possibility that attempting to drive us out of the area is an integral part of that plan.

“On a brighter note Sir, we have solved the mystery of how the Caliphate managed to shoot down one of our B-58s. I have had a preliminary message from The Ambassador-Plenipotentiary of Thailand indicating that the Chipanese Hiryu anti-aircraft missile had an electro-optical guidance adjunct. The technical details are on their way back to us now, but the key factor is that it only works against targets flying relatively slowly and at relatively low altitude.

“Under normal circumstances, Marisol would have been flying far outside its engagement envelope, as we know, this time circumstances were not normal ft does appear though, that the Caliphate prepared for its latest expansion by acquiring the latest technology weapons Chipan was prepared to release. The EO Hiryus, the Djinn FAC-Ms and their new coastal defense missiles.”

Rusk nodded. “There is another disturbing possibility we must also take into consideration. We have noted a substantial increase in the number of terrorist attacks around the world in recent weeks. We have examined these and we have discerned a pattern. Every time the Caliphate makes a move to expand its territory, it is accompanied by such a wave. This relationship had occurred to me when Secretary of State and it does so even more strongly at Defense.

“Mister President, I believe that the Caliphate orchestrates these attacks in order to divert attention from its moves. I would note that a number of these attacks take place here in the United States. Since protecting our citizens is our paramount vital interest, I believe that this situation merits even closer attention. Finally, I was struck by a strange coincidence. A few weeks ago, we had a school siege in South Carolina. The perpetrator broke into a classroom full of children, attacked and almost killed the schoolteacher, then held the children hostage. His demands amounted to the conversion of the state schools into Moslem religious classes. He had a long history of mental problems but still, the link is there.

“He was killed by a Russian woman, a retired Army sniper now married to an American. Yesterday, the same couple intercepted a suicide bomber about to attack a restaurant they run in Moscow, again the lady shot the bomber dead before he could do any harm.”

“They breed tough women in Russia, Dean.”

“So it would appear, Mister President. I believe we have to recognize the possibility that the second attack was an attempt at exacting revenge for her part in the failure of the first.

“That is assuming that the school incident was a part of the Caliphate’s preparations for the seizure of Egypt and the subsequent expansion. And that would link the Caliphate directly to hostile operations carried out on the territory of the United States. Our response to such an attack has always been made very clear.”

The conference room fell silent as the message was digested. It was broken by an aide who entered and gave a slip of paper to LBJ.

“I have some good news. Ramsey Chalk has been found. He was in Arlington National Cemetery in what this note describes as ‘a comatose yet highly disturbed condition’ and is now in the intensive care unit of Bethesda Naval Hospital. Dean, please consult with the Seer and the other targeteers coordinate with them in preparing a strategic attack plan for use against the Caliphate. A comprehensive strategic plan.

“Clifford. Make up a document that will, if the Caliphate comply with its terms, makes it clear they have groveled in the mud to avoid our wrath. We will convene again at 4 pm to review the results of your preparations. Thank you.”

Sick Bay, USS “Austin” LPD-4, Eastern Mediterranean

The subconscious stirred, feeling itself gain a glimmer of awareness. Cautiously it sent out feelers, running along the nerves, gently, delicately, probing for the first sign of trouble. Probing for the first sign of pain so that it could flee back to the safety of oblivion. It found none and sent back its message to the conscious brain, it was safe to come back to life now. The nerves and muscles twitched, the brain came back to life and Captain Ivan Jaeger recovered consciousness. He looked around, white room, hospital white. And there was a priest sitting beside his bed.

“Have you come to give me the last rites?”

“And why would I wish to do that Captain? Allow me to introduce myself. I am Father Andras Schneider of the Society of Jesus. When the Americans alerted the Red Cross that they had captured some German soldiers, I was asked to come here and look after your interests. Here, by the way, is an American amphibious warfare ship and you are in its sick bay.”

“Some soldiers? There are other survivors?”

“There are five, one of whom really has received the last rites and I do not think he will live out the day. But two of your men have relatively minor injuries. In fact, one of the American Marines on board is already in the brig because of them. The Marines have some beer hidden away on board and he was caught smuggling a couple of bottles to your men. But let us return to you. You are Captain Ivan Jaeger? From Berlin?”

“Yes Father. I was in the 14th Panzer Division.”

“Ivan, that is a Russian name, your mother had a fondness for Russian novels obviously.”

“No Father, nothing so literary. There was a song back then about a duel between a Turkish nobleman called Abdulla Bulbul Ameer and a Russian named Ivan Skavinsky Skazar. My mother loved the song and she named me Ivan. I always gave thanks she chose that one and not Abdulla although the way things worked out perhaps she did chose the wrong one.”

Father Schneider looked at a file and nodded. “Perhaps Captain, perhaps not. That was not in your official file but we knew of it from other sources. We have had many cases of SS men claiming to be Wehrmacht in order to escape punishment for their crimes. In some cases they killed Wehrmacht soldiers in order to assume their identity. But now tell me why you think I should give you the last rites?”

“Father, it is well known that all German soldiers are executed on capture. Did you not hear what happened after New Schwabia fell. The Russians killed everybody, even our women and children.”

“Who told you this? There were many executions yes. The Russians executed all members of the SS and the Gestapo and the Einsatzgruppen that fell into their hands. And it saddens me to say your women suffered great indignities at the hands of the Russian soldiers. But killed? No. The women and children and those soldiers that were innocent of grave crimes, their lives were spared. The Russians made many statements in anger it is true but when it came to make a decision, they chose mercy.”

“Father, is this true?”

Father Schneider stared at Jaeger for a second, then took out a bible and his crucifix. “I swear by Almighty God that what I say to you here is the truth as I know it and nothing but the truth. So help me God.” He kissed the cross and put it on the Bible again.

“My apologies, Father. But we were told that they had all been killed. Field Marshal Model even had a secret report from the Red Cross. He showed it to us all.”

“The Red Cross does not make secret reports my son. If you saw something that claimed to be so, then it was false. The survivors from New Schwabia were sent home to Germany.”

Jaeger felt the surge of hope die. “Then they died anyway. Nobody lives in Germany.”

“Again, Captain, if you have been told that, then you have been told falsely. Germany was smashed, destroyed, yes. The Germany you knew no longer exists and will never exist again. Many millions of Germans died in the bombing and many millions more in the aftermath, Even now, only about eight million live in Germany. But everybody dying? No. The radiation has faded and there are few areas where people cannot go.

“Every year those who explore the countryside declare more areas safe and free for access. Even the cities are becoming safe now although few people wish to go to them. There is almost a superstitious fear of those cities as if going to them will bring hack the bombers. But, in truth, the new Germany is becoming quite a beautiful place. There are few people and most live in small farming settlements. The countryside appears untouched and the scars of the bombing are long gone. It is almost like a park, or perhaps the way Europe used to be before factories and cities existed. There is a life for you there Captain, though not as a soldier. Germany will never have soldiers again.”

“Father, please tell me that something else. Those of us who were in occupation forces outside Germany. We were told they were used as slave labor until they died. Please tell me this too was a lie?”

“It is. Let me tell you a story. I was one of those occupation soldiers. In England. The last night of the war, we were told that the Resistance had attacked a radio station, Soldatensender Nottingham. I took my platoon there and it was true. The Resistance had attacked the station and taken it off the air so that Winston Churchill and the English King could make a broadcast. That broadcast told us what had happened then offered us a home. They said we had come as conquerors but we could stay as guests. Instead of fighting the resistance unit, we made our own truce with them that night.

“Over the next few days, we learned the full extent of what had happened to Germany. Some of the men went back to see if their families had survived. Some of us knew there was no hope and stayed. It was not easy, there was much to be forgiven and forgotten and there are always those who will do neither. But for me, well, you can see the path I chose.

“Not all countries had the generosity of spirit of the British. Some put our men in PoW camps, others were not so kind. But death by slave labor? This did not happen. At worst they had to work until they could be sent home. We all suffered terribly of course. In Russia you missed the Great Famine. For more than two years there were no crops in Northern Europe and the livestock sickened and died. Calves were born dead, chickens laid few eggs and those that were, well, nobody could eat them. If it had not been for the Italians and the Spanish, the Australians and the Americans sending food, I think nobody would have survived. But we did.”

There was silence for a few minutes, Schneider remembering the horror of the nuclear attack and its aftermath, Jaeger trying to absorb the enormity of the deception that had been played on him, Eventually the Jesuit spoke again. “Captain. Before I came here, I looked up the survivors of Berlin. There were very, very few, the Americans singled out the city for special punishment. They dropped twelve atomic bombs on it. There are no Jaegers on the list of survivors. Is there anybody else i can look up, anybody else you knew?”

“Just my fiancée. We were to be married on my first leave. She was with the Luftwaffe, her name was Brucke, Sunni Brucke.”

Father Andras Schneider couldn’t help himself, he burst out laughing, Jaeger looked at him puzzled. “Captain, believe me that is one name I do not need to look up. Let me tell you one more story. Your fiancée was in the main German air defense bunker under Potsdam, just outside Berlin. The bunker was deep and well supplied and all down there survived.

“Among them was Herman Goering. The people in that bunker effectively became the German Government and Goering organized the surrender of Germany. Postwar, he and Miss Brucke became friends. I think he saw her as the daughter he never had. When he fell ill, she looked after him at his home in Karinhall. (here he had gathered every art treasure in Europe. The countries of course were all arguing over getting their treasures back but nobody would agree on who owned what. Goering was a very bad man, but he spent the last two years of his life trying to atone for his crimes.

“In his will he left Karinhall and its treasures as a legacy for all the people of Europe. A center of art and enlightenment and culture to remind them what they could achieve if they worked together, just as the devastation around it reminded them of what would happen if they worked against each other. The treasure he and his Nazi conspirators had hidden away in Switzerland, that would support the center.

“There was one codicil attached to that bequest. Me left the private apartments of Karinhall to your fiancée for her to live in, the condition being that she become the manager of the museum. She is a famous lady now, the Director of the European Center for Culture at Karinhall. You are something very rare Captain Jaeger, you have somebody in Germany who waits for your return.

Intensive Care Unit, Bethesda Naval Hospital, Maryland

“Woo-woo, woo-woo. Woo-woo, woo-woo.”

Ramsey Chalk was hunched up in a fetal curl, crouched whimpering in a corner of the room. His cries had been muted at first but suddenly they exploded into a howl of sheer, undiluted horror as he started threshing around, fighting off some ghastly nightmare known only to him. Wails of terror, pain, misery and despair tilled his room, they would have echoed off the walls if they hadn’t been so well padded. The doctor pulled the curtains closed. President Johnson looked at him in shock. “What happened to him, Doctor. Some sort of nervous breakdown?”

Doctor Gan shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple Mister President. I assume Director Hoover has been briefing you about the increasing drug use amongst kids, especially college kids?”

LBJ frowned. “College kids? The Director has been advising me about the increasing flow of illegal drugs into this country, but I was under the impression the problem was mostly heroin being sold in the poorest areas of the inner cities. We’ve had that problem for decades, ever since prohibition ended.”

“That’s one side of the problem Sir, But the truth is we are facing what amounts to an epidemic of drug use amongst college kids. Not the hard stuff like heroin, morphine or cocaine, but what some like to call soft drugs, mostly marihuana. Some of the kids have started to mess around with other chemicals, one of them is lysergic acid diethylamide or LSD.

“The kids call it acid. It’s pretty easy to get, the kids buy it on the street in tablets, capsules, and, occasionally, liquid form. It is odorless, colorless, and has a slightly bitter taste so the kids put it on a cube of sugar and take it by mouth. They get what they call a trip, typically they begin to clear after about 12 hours. LSD’s been around since 1938 but its use has only become widespread quite recently. We really don’t know much about its long-term effects or just how harmful it is.

“The Attorney-General....”

“Former Attorney-General.”

“My apologies Mister President, the former Attorney-General, has a reputation for being extremely sympathetic to youth movements and politics, particularly the extreme pacifist end of those circles where drug use is most common. We believe that he decided to experiment with LSD last night. Something went terribly wrong though.

“If I may explain, if taken in a large enough dose, the drug produces delusions and visual hallucinations. The precise nature of these is determined by the patient’s mind-set as he goes into the drug episode. From what we can piece together from the patient’s, well, ravings would be the best description, he viewed you and the other people in government, you could almost say everybody who surrounded him, as devils, evil incarnate.

“What is worse, he had apparently been reading a report on the destruction of a town called Duren during The Big One. The report was written by a Major Johan Lup of the Wehrmacht who entered the town less than an hour after the nuclear event. It’s a very vivid report filled with horrifying images. Major Lup died of radiation poisoning a few weeks a Her the bombing and, well, it’s a very uncompromising description of the effects of an atomic bomb.

“It also appears that the former Attorney-General received some very bad advice. LSD is not considered an addictive drug since it does not produce compulsive drug-seeking behavior as do cocaine, amphetamine, heroin, alcohol, and nicotine. However, like many of the addictive drugs, LSD produces tolerance, so some users who take the drug repeatedly must take progressively higher doses to achieve the state of intoxication that they had previously achieved.

“It appears that whoever advised the patient was accustomed to a very high dose level. In combination, the two factors appear to have caused what the drug users call a very bad trip indeed. From what we can understand he appears to be trapped in a delusion where he believes he is in hell, surrounded by nightmarish demons and frightful devils who are inflicting the torments of the damned on him, all based on the descriptions in Major Lup’s report.”

“Dear God. How long will he be like this? Twelve hours you say?’

“Normally yes, Mister President. But that is for a normal dose. Here, the patient took a massive overdose, we believe he sweetened some coffee with LSD-doped sugar and drank a lot of it. It’s all that seems to be in his stomach, we think he put a first LSD dose in his coffee cup then just kept drinking more and more of the LSD-laced coffee.

“The best way of describing what has happened is that he has fried his brain. Or perhaps hard-boiled it would be an even better description. Anyway, the pathways in his mind are frozen into their present pattern. As far as we can determine, he will be trapped in that delusion until the day he dies.”

War Room, Underneath the White House. Washington DC.

“The actual attack will take less than two hours Mister President. By that time, the lead aircraft, the RB-58s and the F-108s will already be well on their way home. The B-52s will be finishing their attack runs and also turning for home. Basically, Sir, it’s a very simple operation, it’s just the attack plan we used on Germany enlarged and, of course, using many more much more powerful weapons. We like to think of this as The Super-Jumbo Family Size One.

“Even the weather is running for us, the fall-out from the bombing will be swept out south, out to sea.” Behind General McKenzie, the map of the Caliphate showed an eruption of red blots, representing the initiation points of the attack. Some were the small pinpoints of the 25 and 30 kiloton airbursts used by the RB-58s to take down the enemy defenses, others the huge areas of the 17 and 25 megaton bursts used to destroy area targets.

“I’d never envisaged something so devastating.”

‘‘Mister President, we find that incinerating entire countries gives meaning to our lives and enhances our manliness.”

“Tell me General, when Bambi’s mother was shot by the hunters, did you fee! sad?” Lillith paused, letting the tension build up. “Just a little bit?”

“I am sure she was nicely mounted on the wall of a good home Lillith.” She smiled and made a quick gesture of acceptance at the riposte.

“Please. Can we have a little less of the gallows humor here? I have a very serious decision to make.”

“Actually Mister President, you don’t. Not now at any rate. Even if we give the launch order now, it will take the bombers at least eight hours to fly to their fail-safe points. From there, it takes two hours for them to reach their targets. The bombers going over the Pole will take longer of course, and they’ll be landing in Russia to refuel. The Russians are getting ready to receive them and their MiGs will escort the B-52s staging through Russia at least part of the way to their targets.

“You can order the bombers to turn back at any time right up to the moment they release their weapons. You don’t actually have to make a final decision for ten hours or more.”

“General McKenzie is right Sir.” The Seer paused for a second. “That’s why we have bombers, not missiles. They give us time. Much more importantly, it gives the other side time, time to think, to make decisions of their own. It gives both of us time to try and put an end to this.

“We can send the ultimatum to the Caliphate right now, they’ll have it in less than an hour. We’ll make sure they know the bombers are taking off. They can take their decisions knowing that we mean business. Germany never had that option, the Caliphate will. If they back down now, they can live. Otherwise, they won’t.”

“Do you really expect them to accept that ultimatum?”

‘‘I honestly don’t know Mister President. It’s designed to be humiliating, it’s designed to make them grovel in the mud in front of the entire world. We have absolutely got to make sure that the whole world knows what the consequences of attacking us will be. That’s as much for everybody else’s benefit as for ours. We keep the peace and this is how we do it

“Look, Mister President, we don’t rule the world. We don’t even come close. We never have and we probably never will. We just keep the peace. That’s it, that’s all we want to do. We don’t really care what other nations do as long as they keep the peace and don’t step on our vital interests. Just to make things fair, we’ve gone to great lengths to make it quite clear what our vital interests are. We want a peaceful world. That’s pretty much it, but we do want that rather badly. And we will use force to make sure we get the peaceful world we want. We aren’t unreasonable, if nations want to fight insurgencies or have border incidents or a little self-contained killing spree where nobody else gets hurl, that’s fine with us. Just as long as the world stays more or less peaceful.

“If you like, we are the cop on the beat. The cop walks his beat and very rarely does he have to pull his baton, let alone his gun. That’s not because everybody is terrified that he’ll go berserk and destroy everything. It’s because everybody knows if they take a swing at the cop on the beat, the police will come in strength and never stop until the guilty have been punished so severely that nobody will want to pull the same trick again. This is why our national policy is called Massive Retaliation.

“Yesterday and last night, The Caliphate took a shot at the cop on the beat. Now, its up to us to show them that doing that isn’t very smart. In fact it’s terminally dumb. Then, once its over, we can go back to walking our beat and keeping the peace. Mister President, its painted on the nose of our bombers. Peace is Our Profession. Somebody has to do it, we got the job. We’re not loved for it, very few people really likes the local cop on the beat, but we have to do it anyway.”

At that point an officer from the communications center entered. He had a message flimsy that he passed to the President who read it and handed it to the Seer. “What do you make of this?”

It was a long description of the interrogation of one of the German prisoners taken in the fighting the night before. The Seer read it and lifted an eyebrow. It wasn’t quite what he had been expecting.

“Well, Mister President, that explains a lot. It also gives us a little bit more leverage I think. We’d better modify that ultimatum before we send it out. And also we’re going to have to change the curtain-raiser a little.”

LBJ nodded and took a deep breath.

“Make the changes and send the ultimatum. Then execute the operational plan described. Launch the bombers in two hours time, send them out but tell them to hold at their fail-safe points until I give the order to go.”

Chapter Ten: Reprisals

South Main Street, Brandon, Maryland.

Officer Frank Delmar believed that, for this time of year, evening was about the best time there was. Dawn was pretty good as well, but in the evening, the remainder of the day’s heat mixed with the dusk breeze to make things just about perfect. He’d stopped his patrol car on South Main and was leaning up against the hood, keeping an eye on the street and just being seen. That was the real core of his job, he thought, just being seen.

Over in the west, the sun was setting, the bottom edge of the great orange bail just kissing the horizon, when he heard a rumble. It was familiar, almost routine, the sound of one of the B-52s from the local airbase. Taking off. Only it wasn’t, quite, it sounded different somehow. Delmar caught sight of it suddenly, it was angry crimson, the giant bomber’s silver skin reflecting the light of the setting sun, the white paint on its belly giving a more gentle and peaceful red. But it was lower, much lower than usual and the smoke behind it was black, stained blood-red and ugly by (lie sunset. With a sinking feeling Del mar understood why the aircraft sounded different. Its eight engines were straining hard, fighting to lift a full load of bombs and fuel up into the stratosphere where the bomber would be safe.

The B-52 passed over, the vibration from its laboring engines causing his car to shake in its wake. The noise was enough to make the local people, out to enjoy the peace of the evening, look up. Behind the first bomber was another, its engines also striving to get their load up high and fast. The first bomber’s passage was still shaking South Main when its companion passed over and the third was approaching fast. As each one passed, more people came out of their homes and left the shops to look up and the sky filling with the streams of smoke from the engines, the brilliant reflected shades of red from the bombers passing overhead.

They stood silently and watched the B-52s reaching into the sky as the roar of their passage filled the town. As each aircraft passed, it seemed to be a little redder, a little darker, the smoke cloud from its engines a little less obvious as the sun set. Then, just as the last of the stream of B-52s passed, its fuselage and smoke trail hardly visible in the gathering gloom, the last edge of the sun dipped below the horizon. ‘And on a pale horse rode death,’ Delmar thought as the first of the bombers vanished into the growing twilight.

“God Be With You, Boys.”

Thomas Hardy owned the town drugstore. If he had been east into a Hollywood Western, there would he no doubt as to the part he would play. The kindly town merchant Now he was looking at the bombers fading into the dusk, the sound of their passage ebbing. Suddenly the evening had a chill to it and it wasn’t only the coming of night. Up and down the east coast of America, along its northern border with Canada, other people in other small towns stood and watched their bombers head out to their targets in a country far away.

“Amen” said Officer Frank Delmar

Aviano Italian Air Force Base, Italy

“Gentlemen. We have a go. About thirty minutes ago, the strategic bomber and reconnaissance wings in CONUS started to take off. They will be crossing the Atlantic tonight ready to launch the planned series of attacks tomorrow morning. We have received word from the Russians that the airfields designated as SAC staging points are ready. In addition, a regiment of Russian long range bombers, Tu-22s, will be supporting our attack. That brings me to the first point. We have received a message from that regiment, the 35th Guards Long Range Aviation. Could I have the picture please?”

The lights dimmed and a picture came up, a large, ungainly-looking bomber with a small cockpit well forward and two large engines mounted on top of the fuselage by the tail.

“This is a Tu-22. If you see one of these, don’t shoot at it, they’re on our side. The Russians will be operating well to the North of us, their bombers haven’t got much range so they’ll not be going beyond northern Iran. One thing, second slide please.”

The picture changed to the nose of one of the Russian Tupolevs, showing the name painted under the cockpit. The Cyrillic letters took a little deciphering but were clear enough. For Marisol.

“Second thing. Earlier this evening, we were briefed on the one attack that will take place before the main raid strikes. We have now received new instructions, instead of launching that attack on the base complex around Gaza, we will be hitting a smaller complex around Yaffo further to the north. There are three reasons for this. One is that the coastal defense batteries at Gaza have fired their missiles, they are no longer a threat and, because they are relatively mobile, they may already have moved away. The missiles at Yaffo are still in place. Another is that there is apparently a high value target of opportunity in Gaza that we do not wish to destroy unless we cannot avoid doing so. Last, but not least, President Johnson himself has a personal distaste for the inhabitants of Yaffo.

‘There are two coastal defense, anti-ship missile batteries in the target area, four surface-to-air missile batteries and an airfield. We believe there to be at least 16 enemy fighters there, Irenes, Chipanese-built Kawanishi J12K4 Shindens. They are fast-climbing and can reach B-58 operational altitudes. The strike force dedicated to taking down the Jaffo base complex consists of four RB-58s and will be escorted by four F-108s. If the fighters come up, the F-108s will send them back down again.

“The remaining F-108s and RB-58s will hit assigned targets to assist the penetration of the B-52s. Unlike the Yaffo strike they will wait on Presidential authorization before executing their missions.

“Fly high gentlemen. But before that, get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a very busy day.”

The Ruling Council Conference Room, Jerusalem, The Caliphate.

For the first time in more years than he cared to remember, Field Marshal Walther Model was frightened. That was just one part of his emotional mix, but it was the one he was unfamiliar with. He was, indeed, sick-scared but also furiously angry and seething with hatred for the morons whose bombastic arrogance and purblind stupidity had driven them all into this mess. The worst feeling of all was complete helplessness. He was here at this meeting by courtesy only, he didn’t have a vote in its deliberations and his presence was simply to give information and take orders. Give information? To these brainless, arrogant, conceited, came!-humping offspring of a pox-doctor’s douche-bag? They saw what they wanted to see and heard what they wanted to hear and woe betide anybody who disagreed with them.

They just didn’t understand what was descending on them. They were now crowing about the fight on the beach, almost 36 hours ago. The Satrap of Egypt had worked himself up into a fine frenzy describing how the American Marines had poured ashore in their thousands to be defeated by a handful of gallant Believers. Lurid accounts of how the massacre of the invaders had been so complete that the infidels had left the water covered with their bodies packed so densely one could walk out of sight of land by stepping from one to the next and still see no end of them.

Normally, Model thought, that would mean one of the Marines had an ingrown toenail, but his own reports spoke of three burned-out American tanks found on the scene of the action. His own people had reported there had been one hell of a firefight there. One of his small mobile columns appeared to have been wiped out. How was a bit unclear, the battle scene didn’t make sense. Call it a draw, Model thought, one mobile column for a Marine unit bloodied. As if it mattered now.

More talk, more chatter, more mindless bombast. The Satrap of Palestine, a short, plump man in green battle-dress fatigues and a black-and-white checked cloth on his head, had grabbed the limelight and was haranguing the Ruling Council. According to him, the American navy offshore had been smashed by the land-based missiles and fast attack craft. He spoke of ships exploding and sinking under the relentless attack, of the sea on tire with the destruction, of crew slaughtered to the last man, praying for salvation before their inevitable destruction. Model paused for a second there, did nobody think to ask how, if there were no survivors, anybody knew what the crews had done? The man was still ranting though

“To Washington, we are marching, martyrs by the million!” declared Yasser Arafat, as the Ruling Council roared its approval and chanted along with him.

Well, martyrs by the million they were certainly going to get. The newspapers, television and radio had all reported the bombers taking off from America hours earlier. The American press was crying out for vengeance against the people who had launched the attack on the American forces, the Northern Europeans were bewailing the impending end of the world. ‘Can’t we all just get along?’ was the plaintive headline in one newspaper, from Manchester of all places. The Southern Europeans were speculating that whatever the Americans did, it would take the threat that was pressing in from the cast further from them. The Russians were cheering the Americans on and publishing long lists of the atrocities committed by Caliphate-linked terrorists.

No matter what their position though on the events themselves, all the news was filled with doom and foreboding that was increasing as the American bombers swept across the Atlantic. They would have been half way over when this futile apology for a meeting had started and were now much, much closer. Three hours of mindless boasting and not once had the American ultimatum even been mentioned.

Model looked down at his copy of the American message. Couldn’t these fools read? It was written and constructed to be unacceptable, written to be refused. It was nothing more than a transparent excuse for the sledgehammer blow that was to fall on the Caliphate. He scanned the demands. A full public apology by the Caliphate for the attacks on American units. Payment of compensation for the shot-down bomber and also additional compensation paid to the crew for the hardship and distress they had suffered. More compensation for the Marines killed and injured last night, payment for the vehicles and equipment lost and fuel and ammunition expended. Beneath his impassive expression Model raised his eyebrows at the latter amount, the Americans had thrown how much ammunition at his little unit? Then yet more compensation, for the fighting around the ships, for the missiles used, for the bombs dropped and rockets fired, even for the fuel burned by the jets and ships.

Then there were the non-military provisions, a full admission of liability for the attacks on defenseless refugees and the cessation of all such acts. The establishment of a neutral zone around Gaza for refugees who wished to leave the Caliphate, a zone to be administered by the Red Cross and maintained until all the refugees had been transferred to countries wishing to receive them. An end to the destruction of antiquities and the establishment of another international zone around the Pyramids and Valley of the Kings. Any attacks by anybody on either international zone would be considered an act of war by the United States and treated accordingly,

It ended with a reiteration of the American “Open Skies” policy and stated quite bluntly that any further interference with Strategic Aerospace Command flights would result in a response involving all US national resources. It was a vicious, calculating ultimatum, one intended to cause an infuriated rejection. And the only alternative on offer, the American bombers, were already on their way. The only way to stop them was to accept the unacceptable. Yet, these fools who called themselves Satraps hadn’t even started to discuss it.

And they had to discuss it, they had to. Because, incredibly, unbelievably, this ultimatum offered him the one thing he had been looking for. For months he had racked his brains trying to think of a way out of this trap he was in, then the Americans had dropped it into his lap. All his people had to do was sit tight and the Americans would get them out for him. Model modified the thought, sit tight and remain un-incinerated. He could read a map as well as anybody. His people were right in the middle of the ring of bases that had launched the attacks precipitating this crisis.

If nothing else, the Americans would destroy those bases, just to show what would happen to anybody who attacked Americans. They wouldn’t, probably wouldn’t deliberately target his people but it didn’t make any difference. They would be collateral damage. The irony was overwhelming, after almost twenty years of trying to save his people, they would be wiped out by accident. Unless he could focus this meeting and persuade the Satraps to accept the American demands.

Cockpit F-108A Rapier “Wicked Stick”, 68,000 feet over the Eastern Mediterranean

“Bandits. We have Bandits.” Not Bogies, General Larry noted. Bogies were unidentified contacts, bandits were enemies. For this mission, for the Rapiers that were flying point, everything in front of them was an enemy. “Bandits are climbing fast on intercept course. Enemy count is twenty four in four groups of six. Tentative identification, tentative identification, Irene fighters.”

So much for the pre-raid intel of 16 fighters. No matter, this was one of those occasions when added enemies just made for a richer target environment. Larry ran the threat over in his mind, the Irene was a point defense interceptor, very high rate of climb but with limited fuel reserves, poor armament and worse radar. If the intel was right, these were dash-fours with a pair of 30 millimeter cannon and a pair of Tanto-kai air-to-air missiles -heavy but infra-red homing and limited in range. No matter, the inbound groups were in the tight formations that had become obsolete with the introduction of nuclear-tipped air-to-air missiles.

“Revised raid count, enemy force is now 32 fighters in eight groups of four.” That made sense, the old Luftwaffe Finger Four group. For a moment Larry pined for the old days when a pilot could see his wingman. Now, his wingman, Maybelline, was so far away that the aircraft was lost to sight, its translucent silver-blue finish lost in the glare of the sky. Even further out were the other pair of F-108s, Midnight Fantasy, and Black Velvet. Yet, visible or not, all four fighters were ready to concentrate a deadly volley of missiles onto the enemy fighters.

Larry felt the rotary launcher aft of his cockpit whirr as an AIM-47 was moved to the launching position. “Take them!” and his lighter lurched as the missile dropped clear. It was a weird sensation; the enemy fighters were still far below them yet the missile curved upwards, climbing for the thing air where resistance was less and its speed and range correspondingly greater. Then, at the fuel-optimum point, the missile turned over, its active radar guidance system snapped on and the AIM-47 started to dive on its selected formation.

At that point, two things happened. One was that Wicked Stick and her three sisters were able to lock their radars onto four more of the enemy formations, the other was that the enemy themselves suddenly realized the deadly threat that was already hurtling down from above. Their formations shattered as each aircraft tried to put as much distance between themselves and the initiation point as possible. The problem was, once again, physics.

In the time available, there was only a limited footprint that they could occupy given their speed and agility. The size and shape of that footprint were incorporated in the guidance system of the AIM-47 which plotted the aiming point to include as many targets as possible. The first wave of four finger-four elements had least time to react and, therefore, the smallest footprint. The rippling wave of nuclear explosions took down thirteen of the sixteen aircraft. The brief delay between the two missile salvoes gave the second group of four formations a greater chance of getting clear, eight of the sixteen fighters vanished in the fireballs. In less than two seconds, 21 of the 32 Caliphate fighters had been blotted from the sky. Of the remaining eleven, all had varying degrees of damage from blast and thermal pulse and their pilots were disorientated, in some cases blinded from the light flash.

General Charles Larry knew the rule; when fighter fought fighter, speed and altitude were everything. His four fighters were sitting 30,000 feet above the shattered enemy formation. What was more, the cruising speed of Wicked Stick was 300 miles per hour faster than the maximum speed of the enemy aircraft; when the Rapier went flat-out it was almost a whole Mach number faster. The F-108 may not be the tightest-turning tighter in the world but in this sort of tight it didn’t matter. The Rapier pilots had a name for this final mop-up stage in an air battle, they called it clubbing baby seals.

He’d already picked his first baby, a cripple limping away from the nuclear inferno with smoke trailing from its fuselage. As Wicked Stick screamed down behind her victim, Larry caught a flash picture of the odd-looking aircraft. The designers had put the two engines one above the other, not side-by-side the way God had intended. And the wings, very sharply swept indeed with ailerons on the tips, just like a delta but with a piece cut out.

Then, flashes erupted over the cockpit and forward fuselage as the four 20mm cannon under Wicked Stick’s nose raked the enemy tighter. Almost as he fired Larry broke right and climbed, taking him out of his own stream of shells, shooting oneself down tended to be frowned on. By the time his target exploded, Wicked Stick was already climbing hard, trading speed and energy for altitude while Larry and his KIO picked out their next baby seal.

The Ruling Council Conference Room, Jerusalem, The Caliphate.

The brilliant flashes of Sight lit up the conference room. Model instinctively counted the seconds between the Hashes and the rolling thunder of the explosions. Almost 50 kilometers. That wasn’t a thunderstorm, those were nuclear explosions, nothing else could be that bright at that distance. And the Satraps around the table were still wrapped up in their fantasy world of glory. Model’s aide came in with a teletype report. He read it and his eyes widened. It confirmed both his guess and his worst fears. If the Americans were hitting this hard this early, they were holding little back.

“Your Excellencies. I have just received some highly disturbing news.” That interrupted the conversation, a little anyway. “The leading edge of the American bomber formations have just reached our territory. The main body is still some hours away but the American strategic fighters and reconnaissance aircraft appear to have started the process of eliminating anything that may prevent their heavy bombers attacking whatever targets they choose.

“A small lead formation is approaching the coast of Palestine. The fighters based in Northern Palestine took off to intercept that formation and were engaged by American fighters which used nuclear weapons to destroy them. According to this report, there have been eight high-altitude nuclear explosions sighted and it appears that none of our fighters have survived the attack. There are casualties on the ground as well, how many this report does not tell me. There are no reports of any American losses. The Americans have sent us an ultimatum, have your Excellencies considered your response?”

The response from the Satrap of Syria was almost a sneer, one that made Model reflect on the virtues of old Heidelburg tradition of dueling with sabers.

“A few fighters, what are they to worry about? And some reconnaissance aircraft? What will they do? Photograph us to death?” There were guffaws of laughter from around the table and a few pounded their fists on the table with glee. “And our response to the American message? We should coat it with camel dung and send it back.”

“Your Excellencies, you have all seen a handful of rocks thrown against a window. They do not arrive at once but first one then two or three more before the rest arrive in a mass and smash the glass as if it had never been. This brush is the first stone. The American fighters deal with ours, then their strategic reconnaissance aircraft move in to locate our defenses and eliminate them. Then, and only then, do their heavy bombers, their B-52s, come in to destroy us.

“What has happened in the last few minutes is just the start, the opening move. The situation is going to get worse, much worse, very quickly now. In 1947 it look the Americans less than an hour to destroy Germany. We may have less time than that.”

Model looked at the assembled Satraps. Blank incomprehension and disbelief. They simply weren’t getting it.

RB-5HC “Tiger Lily”, Approaching Yaffo

Some of the targets couldn’t be missed. The harbor was one of them. When the ASG-18 was in mapping mode, it showed up clearly and the military part, the fast attack craft base, was easy to pick out also. It was impossible to punish the fast attack craft unit that had attacked the American fleet, the Djinns had all gone to the bottom under the lash of American naval air power so another FAC unit and its base was to suffer instead. Red Sonja had that duty and she was carrying a missile with a 225 kiloton warhead to do the job. That would erase the entire military facility. The town surrounding it would be collateral damage.

Another target that couldn’t be missed was an airfield to the south of the town. That was where the fighters so summarily dispatched by the escorting F-108s had come from. It was scheduled to receive an AGM-76, one with its warhead dialed up to maximum yield, 65 kilotons. That airfield was one of three targets assigned to Spider Woman, the other two were coastal defense missile batteries.

Other targets revealed themselves. The surface-to-air missile bases for example. They had to turn their radars on to function yet the moment they did so, the threat location systems aboard the RB-58s would plot their positions and target them with AGM-76s. taking down the SAM batteries was a relatively simple task, one for which the AGM-76 had been designed.

The warheads used were set to normal yield, 35 kilotons. Tiger Lily had three such batteries plotted and had her missiles ready to go. Her wing mate Coral Queen had three more. That left each of them with three more missiles for “targets of opportunity”. Tiger Lily and Coral Queen were to open the show.

In their big belly pods, the rotary launchers clicked and the first of the ten missiles, total yield 630 kilotons were on their way to their targets. The rules had been quite simple to understand, attack SAC aircraft and the US would retaliate in a time, manner and place of its own choosing. This was the time, the manner and the place.

The Ruling Council Conference Room, Jerusalem, The Caliphate.

This time there could be no doubt about what was happening, the blinding flashes of light had created a rippling scintillation on the walls and ceiling of the room. Then came the thunder of the explosions, shaking the room and concluded with a big blast that brought down fragments from the ceiling. Model had felt the difference between the sky-wave and the ground-wave and knew these Hellburners had been fired at targets on the ground. Out of the window, on the horizon, he could see the red, glowing mushroom clouds rising, one significantly bigger than the rest. West, he thought, probably the complex around Yaffo. Not Gaza thank God. There was still time but so very little.

His aide had slipped the message in front of him while he had been hypnotized by the mushroom clouds. “Your Excellencies, I have to report that that there has been a concerted attack on our facilities at Yaffo. The Americans have exploded at least ten Hellburners on a variety of targets in and around the city. We can assume that all those targets have been destroyed. Civilian casualties, what the Americans call collateral damage, are likely to be very high, probably in the tens or hundreds of thousands.”

“To Washington, we are marching, martyrs by the million!” The Satrap of Palestine repeated dreamily.

“Thy enemies plotted and they plotted well but Allah plotted also and Allah is the best of plotters.” It was the Satrap of Syria, Model thought in despair, once they start swapping quotations, they’ll be lost for hours.

“To Washington, we are marching, martyrs by the million!”

The Satrap of Palestine had the same, defocused, slack-jawed expression on his face. It struck a chord, years ago, before the Fuhrer had gained power in Germany, there had been a man who had hung around the outside of a town school, watching the children playing with the same, slack-jawed expression. The police had been unable to do anything, just watching wasn’t an offense. So one day a group of local brownshirts, the SA, had dragged him away and beaten him. That lead to another thought, he’d been told that story by an SA man who had survived the Night of the Long Knives because he had taken a gun to a meeting where guns were not allowed. Model had given up his own P38 when entering this room but he’d never been checked for a backup piece. Suddenly he knew how to get these people’s attention, in a smooth action he drew the Tokarev from its concealed holster and fired a single shot into the head of Yasser Arafat. Blood and brains sprayed over the Satrap sitting next to him. Arafat slumped forward onto the Conference table.

“Do you have any idea what is coming? Any idea at all? In 1947 the Americans destroyed Germany with their hellburners and they killed 60 million people. Each bomb carried by a B-52 is four times as powerful as all the bombs dropped on Germany in 1947. Each bomber carries four such bombs and there are more than two thousand of those bombers coming to attack us. Do the maths. Four by four by two thousand. That means the American attack aimed at us is 32,000 times the strength of the one that destroyed Germany. Do the maths. 32,000 times 60 million. You claim Allah will protect you from the Americans? But who will protect Allah from the Americans?”

Model looked around. He was getting through at last; blasphemy had succeeded when logic and reason had failed.

“One of their planners was told that bombers could not kill a religion. He answered ‘No, but we can kill everybody who believes in it and bum all their books’. When all the believers are dead and all the writings are destroyed, who then is left to follow Allah? What is left of his teachings?

“And remember this, those are bombers, not missiles. If there is anything left after their strike, they will just go back to their bases, get more hellburners and destroy whatever it is that they missed the first time. The Americans do not want you to agree to their terms, they want to destroy us. The only way you can prevent them from wiping you off the face of the earth is to do what they do not want. Accept their ultimatum.”

The Satrap of Iran tore his eyes away from the spreading pool of blood on the conference table to the rising mushroom clouds on the horizon. Technically, he was only the first amongst equals but when he made a decision, it was final.

“I would rather drink a chalice of poison than agree to these terms. But the Great Satan’s have left us no choice. We must agree to these terms and set our revenge aside for another day. And we will have our revenge for this. Field Marshal Model. please leave and arrange to have the Great Satan advised of our compliance with their demands.”

Mode) left the room, closing the door behind him. As he did, he saw the Caliphate Council continuing to discuss business. And he had no doubt his own execution was top of the agenda.

War Room, Underneath the White House. Washington DC.

The map showed the bombers gathering at their fail-safe points, just two hours from their targets. The strategic recon wings and the fighters were closer in, the 305th had already dropped the hammer on the Yaffo base complex. That was the indispensable bit, the visible penalty for attacking a SAC bomber,

“Mister President. Message from Switzerland. The Caliphate Council has agreed to our demands. In full. The Swiss Federal authorities have confirmed that instructions have been received from the Council to transfer the compensation amounts demanded from Caliphate reserves to whatever financial institution we specify.”

LBJ looked at the map. “Turn the bombers around, bring them home.” Then he paused, “i get a feeling this is a mistake, we should bomb them anyway. We’re going to have to fight them some time or another, it might as well be now when we are so incomparably stronger.” He shook his head. “We made our demands, they groveled. It’s enough for now. Bring our bombers home.” Another pause. “I’m making a terrible mistake aren’t I?”

“Yes, Mister President.”

Chapter Eleven: Clearing Up

Gaza-North Airfield, Gaza International Zone.

Father Andras Schneider doubled that this airfield had ever been this busy before. Just to start with, there were three big turboprop aircraft, American C-133 Cargomaster transports, over on the hard pad and an even bigger jet-engined transport, one of the newer C-141 Starlifters beside them. The C-141 had brought in troops from America, the C-l 33s were taking the refugees back to Germany. Some the latter were crying, some were silent, some were openly furious at the years they had wasted and the friends and family they had lost. But, they were going home. They had a home to go to.

It hadn’t been easy to convince them. The Marines had landed first and they had come in hard and fast. Some over the beaches, others had been transported by rotodyne straight to the designated perimeter. It had been a terrifying display of power and force, backed up by the bombers circling overhead. The Germans would have fought even so but orders had come from Field Marshal Model himself, not a shot, not a blow. Not even a rude word. The Caliphate troops had taken one look at the massive force deployed against them and departed. Very rapidly. That had been the easy part. The tough part had been persuading the Germans that everything that they had been told for almost twenty years was a lie.

The survivors of the German armored infantry unit had told their story. They were alive, that had persuaded some that the story about immediate and universal execution wasn’t true, but there were not many of them. What had happened to the rest? Destroyed by a tornado of light and fire? A likely story.

In the end, somebody had an inspiration, The head of the ICRC, Doctor Wijnand, had arranged for some of the women and children who had resettled in Germany after their expulsion from New Schwabia to be flown in. They were known personally by some of the Gaza Germans, known by reputation to others. They had told their stories, good and bad. The bad stories had been more convincing than the good, nobody, especially the women, would invent such things about themselves. Those stories had the ring of truth about them and they’d given credibility to the good news. There had been no great massacres, despite the nuclear bombing, there was a home to go to. It was not a home that the people here would recognize but, they were going to go there. As soon as they could be screened and those who were wanted for crimes against humanity isolated. That was taking time, but, over the years, enough refugee Germans had been screened that the procedure had been refined to the point of being a fine art.

So, the Germans had decided to go home and the Americans had provided the transports that would take them there. One of the Cargomasters had finished loading and was closing its rear ramp while Father Schneider watched. It’s engines were already running and it started to taxi out to the runway, ready for take-off on its long haul to Warsaw, There, the refugees would be transferred to trains for the refugee processing center at Gorlilz, on the German-Polish border.

As the transport waddled down the taxiway, it passed a line of F-105 bombers and F-106 fighters that had been sent to cover the evacuation. Amongst the detachments of sleek jets was an equally sleek transport, a C-144 Superstream, only this one wore the markings of the Russian Air Force. That brought Father Schneider’s mind back to the person standing next to him. And a question he had to ask.

“Field Marshal, why did you do it, why did you lie to them all.”

Model looked at the Jesuit steadily for a moment. For that moment, he was about to crush the question with a wintry retort but he didn’t. For all that he’d told himself that he didn’t care what other people thought and didn’t need to explain himself to anybody, he suddenly realized he did want one person to know, he did want one person to understand even if they didn’t approve. And who better than a Jesuit, told under the seal of the Confessional?

“This is a Confession, understand Father? It will be covered by that secrecy and remain between us. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“At first it wasn’t a lie. Not knowingly at any rate. When we heard of the bombing it seemed like the whole of Germany had been destroyed, as it had been of course. Nobody could get news from there, communications were down, all we could get was that an immense fleet of American bombers had destroyed everything of value there.

“Some commanders sent back troops to find out what was happening, some troops deserted and tried to get back. The messages we got from them was that there was nothing left. Germany was a destroyed desert where nothing lived or would ever live again. We knew that Germany had “surrendered” but we assumed it was the surrender of a corpse “agreeing” to be buried. So we were trapped deep inside enemy territory with nowhere to go and nobody to turn to.

“Remember Father, the Russians might show mercy now but then they did not. Surrender meant slavery or death. Or both. Had there been something to go home to, we might have tried to fight our way back, to cut a path back home, but there was no home. Of course, now we know the worst news, the news that came back to us, was from those who hadn’t made it back to Germany, the ones who had given up and exaggerated the stories to explain their dereliction. The ones who had made it all the way back, stayed.

“So we tried to make our own homes in the territory we occupied. We set up our own little states, ruled them ourselves and tried to turn them into new Germanys. I was fortunate. My Army Group had ended the war in a good defensive position and with enough people to make a functioning state. Enough but only just. The countries that didn’t have enough people became nothing more than bandits hiding in the woods. I hoped that they would buy us enough years to become a new country, to become too strong for the Russians to defeat and they would decide to let us be.

“Then, after a few years, I began to learn the truth. That there were survivors in Germany, that a shadow of our home had survived. I knew if my people learned that, some, perhaps many, of them would try to get back. I knew that their chances of getting back were slight and in trying for that slight chance they would destroy the rest of us. Remember, we had only just enough people to create a functioning state. If any significant number left, we would also become nothing more than bandits hiding in the woods.

“So I kept the truth a secret, and once the truth was kept secret, it had to be guarded by a bodyguard of lies. I had to lie to prevent some jeopardizing the survival of alt. Of course, once the lie was started, it couldn’t be stopped, year on year it grew and took on a life of its own. As times changed and situations developed, I had to create new lies and invent new bodyguards to prevent the truth being told.”

“Why did you not just tell your people, let them decide? Lay the issues out for them so they understood what was involved?”

“Because I was their leader, it was for me to decide, not to desert my responsibilities.”

And that, thought Father Schneider was it. A leader either trusted those be saw as his people or he didn’t. In the final analysis, Model didn’t. However much they had deserved his trust, he hadn’t deserved theirs. Now, he never would, for there were a group of Russians coming. Two officers and a pair of enlisted men.

“Field Marshal Model? Major Putin of the Russian State Security. I am placing you under arrest for crimes against the Russian People. Crimes, I might say, that are almost without number.”

“Major, If I may get my bag from my office?”

“I think not Meld Marsha!. You will remain with us. One of my men will get your bags. We have an aircraft waiting to take you to Moscow for trial.”

Father Schneider watched as the German was lead away. It was ironic in a way, of all Model’s people, he was the one who would not be going home.

The Oval Office, The White House, Washington

“The South Africans have agreed Mister President. They’ll be sending troops into the two neutral zones starting within a week. The ICRC will be the supervisory authority for the refugee zone around Gaza, the British have agreed to do the same for the cultural preservation areas in the Nile Valley. We should be able to pull the Marines out very shortly.”

“How much is this costing us?”

“We’re agreed to supply the South Africans with military equipment and some economic and trade considerations. Actually, they’ll benefit us as much as them, there’s a storehouse of raw materials down there and the South Africans have been out in the cold for decades. They’re taking some of the refugees as well by the way, not all the Germans want to adopt the simple agrarian lifestyle. All in all, the economic impact on us will be pretty negligible. We got off lightly in that respect.

“Militarily, we’ve learned a lot. There’s a lot of things wrong with the M60 that need fixing. It turns out there is a design fault in the hydraulics, the whole system is shock-sensitive and the fluid is inflammable. Colt have an urgent contract to re-chamber the captured MG42s for our standard .276, the Marines are riding herd on that. They won’t make the same mistake we did last time we tried to copy the ‘42. We hope to issue the new gun within a year.

“Politically? This one has cost us.”

LBJ nodded bitterly and looked out of the windows. The anti-nuclear demonstrators were out again, their chanting could be heard faintly through the heavy glass ‘Hey, hey LBJ, how many kids will you kill today?’

“I wish it was as easy to make decisions as they think. Damn, I wish it was as easy as I thought before I got this job. Sometimes there are no right decisions are there? There are only the less wrong decisions. And we made a lot of wrong decisions didn’t we?”

The Seer sighed. “This hasn’t been our proudest hour, no. We’ve made a lot of errors all of us. This whole story has been one of mistakes, made honestly and in good faith, but mistakes none the less. From the best of motives, mostly, from lack of knowledge, often, from making assumptions based on too little evidence and then treating those assumptions as facts, all too often. The old proverb says that ‘the road to hell is paved with good intentions’ and we’ve just seen a perfect example. If we could go back, make a few small changes in decisions, we could avoid this. But, we can never go back, all we can do is say to ourselves that this tale was one of mistakes and errors of judgment and try not to repeat them.”

Ortega farm, Rosario, Surigao del Sur

A few miles away from Rosario, in the hills that overlooked the town, Graciella Ortega returned to her little vegetable farm. She’d taken a ride in a bicycle taxi this time, her stomach hurt far too much to let her make the long walk up the hill. Her doctors had been very firm, if she felt any sign of stress, she was to rest immediately. Her wounds had come within a hair’s breadth of killing her and she would have to take great care of herself lest the job be finished.

But, she had to come. Her vegetables had been neglected and she knew the crop was lost. The jungle would be taking back the little field and she would have to weed and hoe with care for the snakes would also have returned. Then, she went dizzy with fear. There were men in her farm.

The fear went quickly for the men were big, Australians. And was replaced by relief, for her farm was beautiful, the rows neatly weeded, the ground between them carefully hoed. The plants had been watered properly, at dusk so the midday sun wouldn’t burn their leaves.

“Missus Ortega? Good to see you up again. The boys here, we were all brought up on farms back home and we couldn’t stand to see a nice field go to ruin. So we looked after it for you.” The Australian soldier looked a little embarrassed. “Some of the produce was ripe and we didn’t want to see it wasted so we took it for our unit.”

He reached into a pocket and produced a grubby piece of paper. “We kept a list of everything and paid for it at market price. Your daughter has the money. Now Missus Ortega, will you look around and show us what we’ve missed. We’ll get it seen to. Feels good to be working a field again.”

B-58A “56-0213 “ On Final Approach to Carswell AFB,

0213 was a B-58A in name only; in fact she was a YB-58 that had been loosely upgraded to B-58A standard then used as a hack. She was tired and her controls were sloppy. This was her last flight, she was to be retired and broken up. Major Mike Kozlowski and his crew were bringing her back to Fort Worth so they could pick up their new aircraft, an RB-58F.

They’d picked her out off the production line a couple of weeks earlier, they’d been invited down by the Fort Worth management and given a VIP tour of the plant. That tour had ended with the final assembly area for the new RB-58F. They’d been invited to make their choice. The foreman had taken them around but when they’d stopped in front of one, he’d shaken his head slightly and led them to another.

“Odd thing about building these” he’d said “some of them are just right from the start, it’s as if they want to be put together and fly.”

He’d been right, this aircraft seemed to have an air of eagerness about her. “Can we have her?” Asked Kozlowski.

“Sure, Major. 64-9617. What you want to name her? Marisol II?”

Just as had happened six years earlier, the name just popped into his mind. Kozlowski shook his head. “No, she’s Xiomara. Spelt like this.” He wrote the name on a piece of paper and handed it over. “It’s a Latin American name, it’s pronounced Zomara.”

As he taxied the old B-58 in, Kozlowski felt himself finally saying goodbye to Marisol. She wasn’t entirely lost, Romano Mussolini had sent him a painting of her, with Sophia sitting in the cockpit and Kozlowski standing on the access ladder by the cockpit. It had come with an official sympathetic letter from the Speaker of the Legate and a much warmer personal note from Mussolini. Sophia and Carlo had also written to him, expressing sympathy and reminding him he always had somewhere to stay when he visited Italy.

The painting hung in his quarters now and sometimes, at night, he had spoken quietly to Marisol A couple of times, he had thought she’d answered but it had certainly been a dream. But, for all practical purposes, Marisol was gone. SAC investigators had carefully collected every piece of wreckage from her crash site and reassembled it in a hangar at Nellis. They’d learned a lot from that and those lessons had been included in the design of the RB-58F. That program had been delayed by almost six months as a result. Once the investigation was over, the wreckage had been buried under the Red Sun test range, an honor reserved for aircraft lost in combat.

Now Xiomara was standing on the hard-pad waiting to be flown out. Complete, she looked quite different to Marisol. Oh, the shape was the same, if one ignored the new engine nacelles, and the new wing shape. The perfect delta of the earlier versions had been modified by extending the wing root forward so that the leading edge was cranked at the inner engine pylon. From the side, that wasn’t obvious though.

What had changed was the color. Marisol’s brilliant chromed silver had been replaced by a soft, translucent blui.sh-silvery white, the same color used on the F-108 and the B-70. The national markings were now a darker shade of the same color, the previous blues, reds and whites muted. Even the nose art was muted now, a soft black-and gray portrait, instead of the full color. That was another result of Marisol’s death. Somehow, nobody knew how, SAC had got hold of full operational specifications of the electro-optical sights used to shoot down Marisol.

A study had shown that the system only worked well when aircraft had brilliant color contrasts and sharp reflections from highly-polished surfaces. Reduce those and the efficiency of the sight dropped dramatically. Hence the new paint scheme. The bean-counters in GAO had tried to use it as an excuse to end the custom of a single crew being assigned their own aircraft but their sally had been met by a virtual SAC mutiny. It had gone as high as SecDef who had ended it with a terse judgment, “if the crews want to keep their own aircraft, let them. Don’t fix what ain’t broke.”

Kozlowski actually preferred the new paint scheme, it made the older chrome silver and full color markings look old-fashioned somehow. Like cars with too much chrome and exaggerated tailfins. But, the color was just a detail. The real secret of the RB-58F was those engines, un-reheated J-58s that gave the aircraft more thrust cold than the older J-57s had on full afterburner. As a result, the RB-58F was a true supersonic bomber, cruising at Mach 2.8 and capable of dashing in at Mach 3.2 when needed. Even better, without the fuel-thirsty afterburners, the F model substantially outranged the older variants. Add in revised electronics that were more reliable than the older systems and a 30mm tail gun, the RB-58F was truly a new generation of Hustler.

It took an hour to get the acceptances signed then the crew mounted up. As the cockpit closed Kozlowski leaned forward slightly and patted the control console in front of him. “Hi Xiomara. I’m Mike, your pilot. Eddy is in the Bear’s Den and Xav is sitting back there in the Electronics Pit. Welcome to the team.”

Silence.

Retraining for the RB-58F had been fairly limited for Korrina and Dravar, the front end of the systems they worked with was virtually unchanged. Eddie’s job was actually easier, the old layout of two radars had been replaced by a superior multi-mode adaptation of the ASG-18. Kozlowski’s workload was also much less without the elaborate control systems for the afterburners. That didn’t decrease the list of pre-flight checks of course, they got longer every year. Sometimes Kozlowski thought that if the Wright Brothers had flown for SAC, they’d still be doing pre-flight checks. Eventually, they started up and moved along to the taxiway, the undercarriage bumping as it hit the panel joins in the concrete. Soon, they were at the runway end, ready for take-off clearance.

“Just a shuttle flight today Xiomara so we can all get used to each other. We’ll start real training next week,”

“Where are we going?” The voice was different from Marisol’s brash assertiveness. It was quieter, more mature somehow. In the Bear’s Den, Korrina gave a thumbs up and all of him he heard Dravar give a muted cheer. In the cockpit, Kozlowski relaxed slightly, he’d been afraid he’d speak to his aircraft and nobody would answer.

“We’re taking you home, Bunker Hill Air Force Base. Isn’t that long a flight, not for you. We’ll be supercruising at Mach 2.8 and 75,000 feet most of the way. You’re the first F-model in the 305th so you’ll be getting a lot of visitors over the next few days. But, once we’re home. I’ll introduce you to your ground crew and we’ll get to work. We’ve got a lot to catch up on. While we were away in Italy, a group of cowboys from the 45th stole our Angel Eyes Shield and we’ve got to get it back.”

There was a chuckle on the intercom system. “We can’t let them get away with that, can we? Mike, take me home. I’m Xiomara, fly me.”

EPILOGUE

Bang Na-Phitsan Palace, Bangkok, Thailand

“This place is beautiful, Madam Ambassador. I’d never have even guessed it existed or that we are in the middle of the city. How do you do it? Is this your home?”

“When we rebuild an area of the city, Mister President, we put modern high-rise buildings all along the main roads and we put them close together. This leaves areas in the center of each block that are screened from the noise and pollution of the city. They are shaded by the buildings and we use the old canal system to make sure they are watered. They give the city lungs, allow it to breathe and permit us to get away from modern life, back to where we are comfortable. You perhaps noted that the way into this compound was unmarked and deliberately unobtrusive.”

That, LBJ thought, was an understatement. The walled house had been reached through a battered and peeling wooden gate at the end of a sordid alleyway. He⁷d actually wondered what was going on until the gate had opened and he’d seen the exquisite garden within. Then he’d seen the complex of ornately carved and enameled teak buildings. They’d been modernized, inside they were wholly 1960s with air conditioning and electrical power, yet outside still looked like something from centuries ago. It wasn’t really a single house, more a series of small residences interconnected by doors, paths, and passageways.

“This is my family’s home, in a way, Mister President, and in another it is not. This is really a Royal Palace, a small one of course, that was loaned to my family for our use. Originally it was built for the Royal Family of Phitsanulok to use when they came to this city. But, once they had no further use for it, my family was awarded its loan as a mark of Royal favor. My family has served the Kingdom for many generations you see.”

“May I ask how long have your family lived here?”

“About six hundred years Mister President.”

Next to the President, Ladybird Johnson choked briefly on her drink. Silently, a maid moved forward, cleaned up the spill and replaced the glass with a freshly-filled one.

“In a way, the Palace predates the city. When it was first built, there was no city here at all, just a small river port on the other side of the river. But, you may have noticed, the way the Chaophrya curls around this part of the city, this is a very easy spot to defend, it has river on three sides and the fourth is narrow and fortified. So many members of the ruling classes built homes on the ground protected by the river loop. When the Burmese destroyed Ayuthya in 1792, the survivors gathered here and a new capital city grew up around their compounds. In this part of the city, there are still quite a few Palaces like this one, tucked away where visitors seldom go.”

“Six hundred years.” Ladybird Johnson was still trying to grasp the idea of a family that had lived in the same home for all those centuries. “And your family was always in Royal service?”

“Always First Lady, always. My own position is hereditary, handed down from mother to daughter.” Unseen in the shadows, the Seer looked down and grinned broadly at that. “One day I will retire into privacy and spend my old age trying to make merit, to offset the price of some of the things I have done. Then, Sir Eric, I hope that you will give my daughter the same wise counsel and precious advice that you have always given me.”

Sir Eric Haohoa started. He’d been leaning back in his seat, enjoying the cool of the evening. Now, he almost overbalanced backwards. ‘‘Your daughter Ma’am? I didn’t even know you were married. Is she here? Docs she look like you?”

“I’m not.” The Ambassador gave him a dazzling, friendly smile. “And I am afraid my daughter is away, learning the things she must know if she is to take over my duties one day. But I am sure that she does look very much like me. All the women in our family have a close resemblance, I am told it is something to do with the genes in the female line of my family being very dominant. But tell me Sir Eric. How is the President’s new Chief-of-Staff settling in?”

“Very well Ma’am, very well indeed. Sir Martyn taught him all he could and Sir Pandit Nehru has built upon his lessons. He has Sir Martyn’s style even so. Sir Martyn is greatly missed but his legacy is safe and secure.”

“And what a legacy.” LBJ’s voice was soft with respect. “In a single lifetime he rebuilt one of the largest countries in the world, turned it from a poor, undeveloped and ill-fed colony into one of the great countries of the world. I wish that I could be remembered in such a way. Instead I will be remembered as the man whose actions ended the Pax Americana. I’d never thought of it that way, not until I read one of the commentaries. There are people in my party who called the Pax Americana ruling the world by terror. Chalk was one of them; I think his long-term goal was to so tie us up in international treaties that we couldn’t keep the peace by ourselves. Pax Americana, it had a nice ring to it. Now it’s gone.”

“We had a good run Mister President, and it had to end sometime. As for us ruling by terror, that’s a phrase for the terminally bewildered. The truth is, for twenty years we kept the peace and we did it with less overt use of force than any other nation in our position. Even the British had their small wars after all and they kept the peace as well. Give them credit; they did pretty well for a lot longer than we did. But it was a simpler world back then,”

The Seer thought for a second. “We were unlucky, a lot of things came together, they interacted in ways that proved hard to predict and we made a lot of mistakes. But, we got off better than we could have. Nobody will challenge one of our bombers again, not for a very long time at least, and our position as hegemon is secure. We’re going to have to work a lot harder in the future to stay that way, that’s all.”

“No matter Seer, it’s on my watch that the easy days ended and I’ll carry the can for that. And, I’ll always be known as the baby-killer now. That’s a hell of a name to carry for posterity. Damn that moron Chalk.”

Prime Minister Joe Frye grimaced in sympathy. He’d had more than his share of being dropped in it by subordinates whose ambitions exceeded their capability. “From what I hear in the newspapers, he’s fairly well damned. What happened to him, I wouldn’t wish that on anybody. Is he showing any signs of recovery?”

LBJ shook his head. “On a good day he sits in a corner of his room and gibbers to himself. On a bad day, it’s horrible to watch. Joe, your army is doing darned well down in Mindanao. My military advisors are impressed. By the way, why is a monkey drinking your beer?”

Frye looked at the small table beside him. Sure enough a small monkey with a sad face and eyes was holding his glass and had his lips on the rim, making drinking motions. It was strangely like a young child trying to drink from a glass that was too big for it. “Hey little fellow, having problems there?” Fry tilted the glass slightly so the beer ran up to the monkey’s mouth. “There, feeling better now? Getting a taste for good beer a bit young aren’t we.”

Frye liked having high-level meetings in Thailand; the country’s brewing industry had been founded by Germans just after World War One and the Thais still brewed a good beer.

“Willie. You bad boy. What are you doing? Come away from there immediately. I’m sorry everybody, he slipped out when I looked away for a minute. Stop disturbing these nice people and come home.” The speaker was a plump, elderly lady, obviously embarrassed by her monkey’s escapade.

“Lani, I would like to introduce you to Mister Lyndon Johnson, President of the United States and his wife Ladybird, Mister Joe Frye, Prime Minister of Australia, Sir Eric Haohoa, Cabinet Secretary of India and, hiding over in the shadows there is The Seer, American National Security Advisor. Everybody, I would like to introduce my Aunt Lani.”

The Seer glanced across the courtyard at the Ambassador and lifted an eyebrow. She replied with an almost imperceptible nod. Meanwhile, Aunt Lani was standing on the grass, her jaw hanging open. LBJ decided a rescue was in order. “Lani, what a delightful little monkey. He’s been no trouble at all, is he your pet?”

Lani was still standing with her mouth open, apparently in shock at the realization of the company she had suddenly found herself in. The Ambassador answered for her. “No Mister President, it’s not a family pet. Lani and her husband run an animal welfare and rescue service, they take in animals like monkeys and a few others that were being smuggled out of the country, get them back to health and release them in the wild. A few are too young to be released immediately so they stay here until they are ready.”

“It’s a terrible problem, Mister President” Lani had finally recovered her voice. “People take these animals and trade them as exotic pets or kill them to make Chinese Medicines. Not just monkeys but tigers, bears, birds, all sorts. Some of the things they do are horrible. Did you know they cut bears open and prevent the wound from healing so they can drain the bile out? My husband and I have been trying to get some sort of agreement to get the trade controlled and the worst excesses stopped but nobody will listen to us.”

LBJ looked at the little monkey. If that monkey had escaped by accident, he was the Flying Dutchman. “Welt, Lani, somebody is listening now. I will instruct our Ambassador here to speak with you about this and come to an agreement about controlling this trade. I’ll also tell him the matter has my personal interest and I’ll have his hometown bombed if it isn’t resolved satisfactorily. After Yaffo, he’ll believe me.”

Lani triumphantly swept up her monkey and left. LBJ looked defensively at the group. “Have you any idea how many little old ladies east their votes because they think a candidate is kind to little furry animals? Enough to swing a marginal my way. Anyway, I can’t really think of a situation where I would order our bombers to take down an American city,”

“I can.” The Seer said idly. “Several in fact.”

LBJ looked pensive for a moment. “Probably Seer, but a recalcitrant ambassador isn’t one of them, I hope.” He looked at the Seer and got a nod of agreement. A recalcitrant ambassador wasn’t one. LBJ got a feeling he would find out later what were the situations; he wasn’t certain he wanted to know though.

“Seriously, an agreement of this sort really will play well. It’s the sort of thing we should announce when the Summit Meeting is over. The security agreements and trade accords will mean nothing to most people, but an agreement to protect little furry animals, that’s something everybody who votes can relate to.”

Joe Frye nodded. There spoke the master campaigner. When LBJ was in Texan geniality mode, it was easy to forget that the man was a politician without equal. He would speak to the Australian Ambassador as well.

“Have you seen Model’s trial in Moscow Mister President? No matter how much we despise the man and everything he stood for, I think we have to respect his performance there. Stood up in front of the court, took full responsibility for everything that had been done and tried to exonerate all his subordinates on the grounds they were only obeying orders. Then stood mute.”

“Doesn’t work.” The Ambassador grunted. “German Army Officer’s manual, 1930. “Officers are trained to receive commissions so they will know when to disobey orders’. Specifically states that an officer who obeys an illegal or criminal order has the same degree of guilt as the person who issued the order.”

She looked around at her companions. “Our army was trained by German expatriates in the early 1930s and our Officer’s Manual is just a translation of the German one. Anyway, we’ll probably never know why he did the things he did. To be honest I don’t think he knows, he’s probably justified them so many times to himself he believes his own story. Mister President, how is the evacuation of refugees from Gaza progressing?”

“Very well Ma’am. We have our troops out now and the South Africans have taken over protecting the areas. There are some experts from the British Museum in the Valley of Kings, trying to repair the damage the Caliphate did to the relics there. They’ve got the fragments of the Sphinx and are trying to reassemble it, the FBI are helping them out, they have expertise in putting bombs back together that can be applied. The Caliphate tried to blow up one of the pyramids as well but they hardly scratched it. The paintings though, I am told, are defaced beyond recovery and, of course, everything in the Cairo Museum was burned to ashes.”

There was silence for a few seconds, ended by the blast of a car horn from outside the gates. One of the servants opened up the door, letting in four Executive Assistants loaded down with packages from stores. The Ambassador got up to greet them.

“How was your retail therapy girls? Naamah, how did you get on? Redheads are really rare here, I was worried you might not be able to find anything to suit you. Lillith and Igrat wouldn’t have had any problems of course. Nor would Inanna, now we have so many American tourists here.”

“We did just fine Snake.” Naamah held up her packages triumphantly. “Shinawatra Silk had every color and pattern you can imagine. What do you think of this?” She fished in a bag and pulled out a luminescent emerald green silk and held it up to her hair. “Got some dresses and office suits being made up for me. Lillith’s having a dress made that’ll bring Washington to a complete stop.”

“Lyndon, that’s beautiful. Will we have time for some shopping here?” Ladybird looked at the bags of silks with acute longing.

LBJ nodded agreeably. “Perhaps Naamah will take you tomorrow. Naamah, I’ve talked to The Seer on this and the Contractors are agreeable if you arc. I have decided the Presidency ought to have an Executive Assistant from The Contractors, one independent of which party is in power. That’ll help policy continuity and avoid communication gaps. I would like you to take that job, starting when we get back. You’ll have an office in the White House.”

“Why thank you Mister President. I’ll look forward to that.” Naamah thought for a second. “Does this mean I can charge today’s retail therapy to Uncle Sam?”

LBJ looked at The Ambassador and the four Executive Assistants examining and comparing their purchases. “You little demons.” he said affectionately.

Naamah looked at him, her head tilted a little to one side. “Mister President” she said curiously “How long have you known?”

The End